


Going Top Shelf

by WelpThisIsHappening



Series: Tripping Over the Blue Line [4]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-03-10 14:05:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 135,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13503107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelpThisIsHappening/pseuds/WelpThisIsHappening
Summary: It's more than just one season.It's hits and goals and being the face of the franchise and events and family and road trip facts. It's on-ice injuries and off-ice dramas and weddings and cross-country flights and shouting in the stands. It's games and holidays and traditions and athletic-based superstition.It's life and it's not just hockey and as far as Emma and Killian are concerned, that makes it even better.A collection of 'Tripping Over the Blue Line' oneshots from before, during and after the original story.





	1. Cup'ing Treatment

“If Liam uses the phrase ‘mountain air’ one more time, I’m going to strangle him.”  
  
Emma lifted her eyebrows, tugging her lips behind her teeth to try and mask her smile and it didn’t really work and it kind of made Killian’s heart stutter in his chest, but that had kind of been the theme of the trip to Colorado so he wasn’t entirely surprised.

He wasn’t surprised by how often Liam kept using the phrase _mountain air_ either.

“You can’t do that,” Emma said evenly. “There are cameras here. Also I think you might get fined for that.”  
  
Killian shrugged and he’d mostly done it for the reaction – the slight glint in her eyes that made the green seem just a shade sharper how she shook her hair over her shoulders when she was trying to prove a point, the slight twitch at the end of her nose when she kept trying not to laugh at him.

God, he was a giant, sentimental mess.

“I signed that contract,” Killian pointed out. “I’m making more than enough money now to pay off a fine for only threatening to strangle my brother.”

Emma clicked her tongue. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s how it works.”  
  
“Mountain air, Swan. What even is mountain air?”  
  
“I think if you asked Liam he’d be more than happy to tell you what mountain air is. Or Mr. V because he’s also talking about it a lot. To the Stanley Cup guy.”  
  
“Which Stanley Cup guy?”  
  
“Wait, there’s more than one Stanley Cup guy?” Emma asked, skidding the back of her heels into the dirt under her feet and they were sitting on a swing set. In the backyard. In Colorado. With all the goddamn mountain air.

Killian hummed, swinging back on an actual, real-life swing. The entire stupid set creaked. Emma had given up not laughing.

“There is, in fact, more than one Stanley Cup guy,” Killian confirmed. “There’s the one with the Twitter feed I think he’s required to update at every moment of every day and then there are his lackeys or something.”  
  
“Excuse me? Stanley Cup lackeys? You are making that up.”  
  
“Swan, how have you not seen all these people here?” he asked skeptically, waving a hand back towards the house and the small contingent of suit-wearing NHL officials gathered around a table.

They’d gotten there that morning – far earlier than anything should have existed during the offseason, or so Emma grumbled into Killian’s shoulder blade when someone knocked on their guest room door – a small platoon of very official-looking faces and white gloves and the actual, goddamn Stanley Cup.

Mrs. V cried.

Elsa tried to pretend she didn’t cry.

No one believed her.

Killian was fairly certain half the text messages he’d been ignoring all afternoon were Will shouting about Elsa’s tear-stained cheeks on several different social media platforms.

And, really, it hadn’t been much of a decision. They won the Stanley Cup, he shaved his incredibly superstitious playoff beard, they had a parade, he signed a very large, slightly surprising contract extension and they told him he had to figure out what to do _with his day_.

That was exactly how they worded it too.

 _His day_.

Like it was some sort of day of reckoning.

If Liam mentioned _mountain air_ one more time it probably would have been.

As it were, it was just more sports-based tradition and Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers, got twenty-four hours with the Stanley Cup and a copious amount of family and it hadn’t been much of a challenge to decide he wanted to do both of those things in Colorado.

Elsa had cried then too.

Anna took pictures. And sent them to Will.

Killian didn’t tell Elsa that.

Instead, he’d spent most of _his day_ sitting on a swing set in the backyard, letting his sneakers dig little tracks into the dirt while he considered several different, rather wide-sweeping options for a future that now felt a little bit more possible than ever.

“I’ve been kind of busy,” Emma said, pulling Killian out of his own thoughts and maybe that was for the best because they hadn’t even moved into the new apartment yet.

They should probably move first.

Definitely.

Right?  
  
He had no idea how to do any of this.

If he was going to do this.

Definitely.

“Swan, if Lucas told you that you have to update anything at any point today I will personally help you stage a community relations riot,” Killian said and he wasn’t entirely expecting the laugh he was met with.

Emma’s whole body doubled over with the force of it, hair falling in front of her face and brushing over her knees and she had a white-knuckle grip on the chains that kept the swings connected to the rest of the set.

“I’m serious,” Killian continued. “This is the offseason. This is supposed to be some kind of victory lap or tour or whatever. And I swear that one guy with the white gloves is actually glued to his phone. Anything we post can just be retweeted from him.”  
  
She bit her lip, eyes brighter than he could remember seeing them in months and they’d won, but the playoffs had still been some kind of emotional _trip_ and maybe they did deserve a slightly quieter victory tour.

Or whatever they were calling it.

“You know that guy has a name,” Emma said, swinging left and right until she’d worked up enough momentum to bump against his side. “He’s really popular on the internet.”  
  
“Strange as it may seem I’m not spending a lot of time on the internet.”  
  
“Old man, frustrated with the current social media world we live in.”  
  
Killian shrugged. “I’m not entirely disagreeing with that, but you’ve also conveniently avoided answering my question, love.”  
  
“Quick on the uptake during the offseason,” Emma grinned, tugging on the sleeve of the several dozen team-branded t-shirts he’d brought with him to Colorado. Regina had texted and e-mailed the night before to remind him to wear team-branded that morning because _the league will care_.

“It’s your offseason too, Swan. You shouldn’t have to be updating stuff all the time.”  
  
“I’m not.”  
  
He expected that even less than the laugh and, if he were being honest, he was kind of hoping for the laugh. Emma smiled, shrugging slightly and it might have been the single most endearing thing he'd ever seen in his entire life.

His mind was drifting again. God.

“I’m very confused,” Killian admitted, glancing up when Mr. V started talking about the benefits of higher altitude for athletes and breathing exercises and, possibly, something about the Olympic training center.

Liam was rolling his eyes, hitching Lizzie further up to rest her against his shoulder and the twins were both trying to tug the table cloth out from underneath the Stanley Cup and it was loud and vaguely chaotic and kind of nice. In a better-than-ever sort of way.

And Killian knew it didn’t have anything to do with winning a Stanley Cup or the Stanley Cup being in Colorado or anything that wasn’t how easily Emma had fit into the middle of absolutely everything.

“Yeah, I know,” Emma smiled. “And I am not updating anything. Philip Pritchard is tweeting. That’s his name by the way and he’s got a shit ton of Twitter followers. And you’re right about retweeting. Mer’s taking care of it because, breaking news, Cap, I am on vacation.”

She punctuated the statement with a press of her finger into his chest and it wasn’t easy to stay balanced on the swing when he wrapped his own fingers around her wrist, but doing anything except touching her – even with Philip Pritchard and his very popular Twitter account looming a few feet away – seemed like the biggest mistake in the world.

Emma clicked her teeth and the swing set chains were starting to twist, one of her legs tangled up in between his and only her toes on the ground.

Maybe he’d been wrong about the most endearing thing before.

“What I have been busy with, however,” Emma continued. “Is discussing the merits of one table cloth over another with El last night, talking to Mr. V about real estate options on the Upper West Side, which you should really talk to him about by the way because he’s very concerned we’ve been absolutely cheated––”  
  
“––Did he use the words cheated?”  
  
Emma nodded seriously. “Oh, yeah, several times. Also he’s really curious about, and this verbatim I swear, that bedroom you won’t need for several years.”  
  
“Fucking hell.”  
  
“It was nice. Almost. I mean it kind of freaked me out, but his intentions were good.”  
  
“Jeez,” Killian sighed, running his hand through his hair and he was fairly positive he heard a phone camera snap somewhere. He ignored whatever his stomach did about _two rooms_ and it just made sense.

For the future. Maybe. Possibly. If he got to the first part of whatever plan was possibly forming in the back of his head.

“Oh, also, me and Lizzie have gotten real close in the last two days,” Emma added. “We’re both real big fans of whatever they show on the Disney channel now.”  
  
Killian wasn’t sure if he was suffocating from a distinct lack of oxygen in his lungs or if his entire nervous system was just shutting down because that same oxygen wasn’t getting to his brain, but everything felt a bit _more_ in an overwhelming sort of way and he couldn’t seem to remember a single word.

Emma widened her eyes. “El needed some sleep,” she said, like that was an excuse and not some kind of life-altering news. Definitely felt a bit more definite in that moment than it had when he’d woken up. “And she was just like...irrationally worried about the table cloth.”

“That doesn’t surprise me at all,” Killian muttered, finally able to come up with words. They didn’t quite sound like actual words, though, rasped out like he’d spent the last four hours skating non-stop and had only just caught his breath.

It kind of felt that way.

“You and Liam have been arguing about whatever it is you’re arguing about and I’ve been hanging out with a painfully adorable baby who likes to fall asleep on my shoulder,” Emma said. “Have you really just been arguing about mountain air this whole time?”  
  
“Not the whole time,” Killian mumbled and it all felt kind of stupid when Emma was still bumping against his side in some kind of almost-rhythm and she was still smiling and they’d gotten a two-bedroom apartment.

“At least seventy-nine percent of the time.”  
  
“That is oddly specific.”  
  
“I’ve had some chance to ponder that very specific joke. Did it work?”  
  
“Absolutely,” he promised and her answering smile would probably fuel his entire season and, possibly, an Olympic appearance if he could convince the league to stop being idiots. “And it’s not so much the mountain air as it is how much he’s talking about it. If he’d come up with a single other topic of conversation it wouldn’t be a big deal.”

“I think it’s making you prickly.”

He arched an eyebrow, well aware that it would work a slightly dramatic sigh out of Emma, and smiled, hooking his foot behind her ankle to try and tug her against his side. That didn’t really work. They were sitting in swings.

“That word sounds awfully familiar, Swan,” Killian said, pressing a kiss to her temple. Another camera shutter went off. He didn’t flinch.

“That was definitely, El,”  Emma mumbled. “Anna’s really mad she’s not here. That was another reason why Lizzie and I were hanging out. Anna likes to yell a lot on the phone, you know.”  
  
“I’m very aware of that fact.”  
  
“Where is she?”  
  
“At last update she was somewhere in Egypt possibly raising the dead.”  
  
“Was that a reference? Are you threatening to fight front office and making _The Mummy_ references in the same conversation you were also complaining about air and Mr. V’s real estate thoughts?”  
  
“If Mr. V has real estate thoughts he should probably keep them to himself. Or discuss them with us. The people who are living in the real estate. And I don’t remember threatening all of front office. Just Lucas.”  
  
“I’m going to tell her you said that,” Emma laughed.

“I’m not threatened by Lucas.”

“That’s your mistake.”

She did something absurd with her face – a twist of her eyebrows and lips and they’d probably offend the protectors of the Stanley Cup if they just started making out on a swing set in the backyard.

Killian was almost willing to chance it.

“And,” Emma muttered, tugging lightly on the front of his shirt and they were both going to fall off the swings. They should have hidden in the guest room. Or never come out of the guest room. “I’m very happy with our real estate choices.”

Definitely willing to chance it.

She bent her head first and he’d probably think about that for the rest of the time they were in Colorado and probably the rest of the season and, hopefully, the rest of his entire life and Killian’s hand moved on instinct, tiny divots from the goddamn chains still in his palm when he rested it on the small of Emma’s back.

They bumped knees and she, somehow, managed to step on his toe and he might have actually bit her lip at some point when someone started shouting from the house and something else crashed and one of the white-gloved officials gasped because they’d probably broken the Stanley Cup.

And Killian didn’t stop kissing Emma.

Or the other way around.

He wasn’t going to be specific about it.

They’d gotten incredibly good at this in the last year, _season_ , moving with practiced ease and Emma’s fingers found the back of his hair, tugging lightly until he made some kind of impossible noise he absolutely should not when his brother, parents, quasi-sister and several adorable children were a few feet away.

He didn’t really care about the Cup people.

He kind of hoped they scandalized them.

“There are people here,” Emma mumbled, but she didn’t actually move away from him and that felt like a bigger victory than the actual victory. “With social media apps on their phones.”  
  
“If that Twitter guy is taking pictures of us, he’s definitely got his priorities fucked up because the twins are probably going to dent the Cup at some point.”  
  
“Ah, but that’s endearing.”

“Destructive.”

“Adorable.”  
  
“You know I'm almost surprised we haven’t been arrested by the whole lot of them.”

Emma pulled back at that, expression bordering on incredulous and she was biting her lip again. That was distracting. “I don’t think they have that authority,” she said, glancing towards a suit and the gloves that seemed to be reflecting light and he was definitely staring at them. “God, maybe we should save the makeouts for other places.”  
  
“Ah, but you attacked me, love.”  
  
She stuck her tongue out. That was more distracting. “This is a very confusing conversation,” Emma muttered. “You keep jumping around from point to point and then back again. Also the kissing was absolutely a joint effort, so don’t act like you weren’t all about that.”  
  
“All about that,” he repeated slowly and she rolled her whole head in response.  
  
“Is that an argument?”  
  
Killian shook his head, pushing out his lower lip slightly and Emma might have actually growled. Before she kissed him again.

That one Stanley Cup guy might have clicked his tongue in reproach.

“Oh my God, you know you’re freaking out Mr. and Mrs. V.”

Killian groaned, letting his forehead rest against Emma’s and he could still feel her smile when he brushed his lips over her cheek, pulling away to glare at a very self-satisfied looking Liam.

“What do you want?” Killian sighed. “Why aren’t you watching your kids?”  
  
Liam didn’t look impressed. “Why aren’t you watching my kids? Also Mr. and Mrs. V are here. If you think they’re not seizing every grandparent moment you’re even crazier than I think you are and I’m pretty sure I just saw you two making out on my swing set.”  
  
“You’re only pretty sure you saw us making out?” Emma asked, her leg still in between Killian’s and one hand on his knee. “That seems problematic.”  
  
Liam blushed.

Killian cackled. It actually hurt his throat.

“I love you,” he mumbled, kissing the curve of her shoulder and pointedly ignoring his brother.

“Good news for me,” Emma smiled. “It’d be weird if you didn’t and we signed that very fancy, very expensive, lots of square-footage joint lease.”  
  
She kissed him, a quick brush of her lips over his and Killian nearly stumbled forward trying to chase after her. Liam laughed. And Emma jumped off the swing, crossing her arms tightly over her own team-branded t-shirt with his name on the back, pressing up on her toes and narrowing her eyes.

“Liam,” she said pointedly and he nearly jumped to attention. “If you mention mountain air one more time I’m going to kick you in the shins and tell all the Cup protectors that I beat you in air hockey at Christmas.”

He blinked. “Aye, aye Captain.”

“Good,” Emma grinned, nodding once like that settled that. She glanced over her shoulder and Killian was fairly certain he was blushing as well. Liam would probably make fun of that at some point. “Before I go make ridiculous faces at your adorable niece do you want to explain why the Cup protection squad was going to arrest us?”  
  
“We’ve got to come up with a more consistent name for them,” Killian said, making some sort of strangled noise when Emma kicked at his ankle. “Weren’t we just making backyard declarations, Swan? That should prevent attacks.”  
  
“Please stop using that word. Why are we getting arrested?”  
  
“There’s still a Conn-Smythe in your kitchen.”  
  
“What?” Liam shouted, drawing the attention of every single Cup protection squad and their phosphorescent gloves. “How did you manage that?”  
  
“Oh my God, Liam, yell it a little louder, please,” Killian grumbled.

“You brought it up,” Emma said. “And it’s not going to stay in my apartment forever. Probably. Right? I mean we’re going to move eventually.”  
  
“You’re going to steal an NHL trophy and bring it to your two-bedroom apartment?” Liam asked, voice dropping low enough that it was even almost more obvious than his previous screech.

Killian ran a hand over his face, pulling in several lungs-worth of fresh, clean _mountain air_ and tried not to let his frustration linger too long between his shoulders. Ariel would kill him if he fucked up his shoulders before the start of camp.

“Liam, you are absolutely awful at this,” Emma hissed, pressing up on his shoulder to glance at the slightly curious crowd they were drawing. “And as a follow up to the conversational requirements going forward, please stop talking about the number of bedrooms we have in our apartment. It was a joint decision.”

Liam stared at her like he’d only just started understanding the English language, mouth hanging open and shoulders moving quickly and Killian’s laugh seemed to echo off the goddamn mountains.

“You guys are freaking out the Stanley Cup protection squad,” Elsa said, appearing next to them suddenly and, seemingly, out of nowhere.

“Shit, El, where did you just teleport from?” Killian asked. She glared at him.

“Also, your name for them sounds way more official than ours,” Emma added.

“It’s because she used the entire name,” Liam said. “That makes it sound more official. Did you know they stole a Conn-Smythe?”  
  
Elsa almost looked offended. “Obviously. They’re going to put it in their very fancy two-bedroom apartment, right?”

“How did you know that?”  
  
“Anna. How did you not know that?”  
  
“Anna only gossips with me when she needs me to send her money.”  
  
“Does that happen lot?” Emma asked, half-standing and half-sitting on Killian’s leg, stretched out in front of him and he couldn’t really think when she kept running her fingers over the back of his neck.

Liam shook his head. “Nah, only when she––”  
  
“––Falls off a mountain,” Killian finished.

“Oh, I’m going to tell her you said that,” Elsa warned, one arm wrapped around her middle when she started to laugh.

“She’ll have to get in line. Lucas is apparently mad at me too.”  
  
“Oh, yeah, you should be worried about that.”

“And, you know, maybe we’ll give the Conn-Smythe back,” Emma shrugged. “Eventually. If the league figures it out.”  
  
“You don’t think the league is going to figure it out?” Liam balked.

“I really don’t care. I’m on vacation.”  
  
“Ah, yeah, that’s fair.”

Emma hummed, kissing on the edge of Killian’s mouth before standing up again and flashing him a smile that seemed to settle in the pit of his stomach. As if that was something smiles could do. “Maybe the Conn-Smythe can hang out in the guest room,” she said. “I’m going to get something to drink and make sure the league reps don’t actually tweet anything that will get me in trouble with Zelena. Please don’t shout about trophies too loudly.”

She was gone half a moment later, calling to Mrs. V about drinks and food and Killian knew he was smiling like an absolute idiot even before Liam and Elsa started laughing.

“Do not start,” he warned, holding up a hand and there were still chain marks on his skin. It wasn’t helping his cause.

“We said no words at all,” Liam promised.

“I mean we were thinking them,” Elsa said, leaning against Liam’s side and making a face when he slung an arm around her shoulders. “Loudly. For weeks. Since the Cup Finals. And a distinct lack of proposing on the ice.”  
  
“Not all of us were thinking about you proposing on the ice. Don’t do that.”  
  
“I’m not going to do that,” Killian said, but he was fairly certain it didn’t matter what he said. He was already in the middle of this inquisition and Anna was going to be really mad she missed all of it. “And you can’t blame hormones for this anymore, El. This is just you being insane now, straight up.”  
  
“See, I know you’re trying to be threatening, but you just used the words _straight up_ as an actual threat, so I’m going to be _straight up_ and tell you that I am not threatened by your threat.”  
  
“That was really convoluted.”

Killian made a noise – something that might have been an agreement or just generic acceptance – and Elsa smiled when she dropped onto the swing next to him. “Liam can you please sit on these swings with us?” she asked, nodding in the direction of the seat Emma had only recently left. “It’s weird if you’re just standing there.”  
  
“That’s what’s weird about this?” Killian asked.

“Stop it, KJ,” Elsa muttered. “C’mon it’ll almost be fun. We can actually use the swings for once.”  
  
“I really don’t think we’re supposed to use these,” Liam wavered, but he sat down anyway and the whole goddamn set creaked. “God, what does that say about us?”  
  
Killian laughed. “That this was made for children. Or your craftsmanship is shoddy.”  
  
“It’s probably definitely the second one.”  
  
“Ah, c’mon, don’t tell me that,” Elsa yelled. “I’ve already got enough to worry about. Dad’s obsessed with this mountain air thing and how it affects newborns like the twins didn’t live here.”

“Oh, I wonder where he got that from?” Killian mumbled, drawing a dramatic groan out of Liam. He grinned. “Also, El did you plan me being in the literal middle of this attempt to recapture childhood or was that just a happy coincidence?”  
  
“Happy coincidence,” she echoed. “And did we ever swing on a swing set when we were growing up? I can’t remember doing this once.”  
  
“What does _that_ say about us?”  
  
“That we grew up in New York,” Liam chuckled. “And spent most of our lives playing hockey.”  
  
“Ah, yeah, definitely that.”

Elsa hummed and for half a second Killian thought they were actually going to ignore the intervention and maybe just actually swing on a slightly rickety swing set. The internet probably would have appreciated that.

No such luck.

“So,” she Elsa and it sounded a little bit like she was about to present a bill to the Colorado House of Representatives. “Proposal before or after camp starts?”

Killian nearly dislocated his ankle, digging his heel into the dirt and he’d have to fix that eventually because he’d created some sort of chasm. “Jeez, El,” he muttered. “A warning next time would be good.”  
  
“You had a warning. You knew it was something when we sat on the swings. Also we’ve talked about this before.”  
  
“Because you were pregnant.”  
  
“You were only talking to me because I was pregnant? Choose your next words very carefully, KJ.”  
  
“Oh my God.”  
  
“Not great ones, if I’m being honest.”

“He’s nervous,” Liam reasoned, leaning forward so he could stare meaningfully at Elsa. “He’s never asked a girl to marry him before.”  
  
“Oh my God,” Killian repeated. “I am sitting right here.”  
  
Liam clicked his tongue. “Swinging. You’re swinging. Kind of. If you want to get technical.”  
  
“And that wasn’t a disagreement,” Ella whispered, barely keeping her voice even. She looked like she might start crying again.

His ears were on fire.

Killian was positive.

And the ground was, suddenly, the single most interesting thing in the entire world.

Liam let out a low whistle. “Holy shit,” he said, enunciating every letter and Killian rolled his eyes.

“You’re a child,” he muttered.  
  
“Who has actually proposed to someone before, so you might want to take some pointers or something. Don’t do it on the ice.”  
  
“I’m not going to do it on the ice.”  
  
“Anna’s going to be disappointed,” Elsa muttered, a hint of a smile twisting her lips and Killian’s eyes were going to get stuck that way. That’d probably make the social media photos with the Cup weird.

Lucas wouldn’t appreciate that.

He’d end up on several different backpages.  
  
“Strangely enough this is not Banana’s issue,” Killian said. Elsa let out a noise that wasn’t quite human and might have done damage to the hearing of several different dogs in the area. “God, El, what the hell was that?”

“That was a confirmation,” she hissed, trying to shout while still trying to whisper and it just left her half hanging off the swing with eyes wide enough that Killian was worried they might actually fall out of her head.

That would make several other backpages.

“I think he’s actually blushing,” Liam laughed. “Look at his ears. Shit, you buy a ring Killian?”  
  
Killian shook his head and he wasn’t sure when he’d decided to have this conversation, but it might have been somewhere in between Emma sitting on his legs and not sitting on his legs and how easily she’d walked back into that house or picked out an apartment on the Upper West Side with two bedrooms.

It all felt impossibly easy.

That was probably a sign.

Liam whistled again and Elsa waved a dismissive hand, trying to make sure they didn’t spark any questions from an overly curious Mr. V. “Ok, ok, ok, wait a second,” she said quickly. “So you’re doing this? For real?”  
  
“El, did you just use the phrase for real in an actual conversation?” Killian asked, jerking his head up. His neck cracked.

“You should see A about that.”  
  
“Deflection.”  
  
“Yes, I did because I am trying to get an actual word confirmation out of you. Consider yourself under oath, KJ. Have you been actually thinking about this?”  
  
“Outside of your weird, gossip-fueled rants during the Cup Final?”  
  
“KJ!”  
  
“No,” he said and Elsa visibly deflated. “Let me finish. No, to thinking about it outside your weird, gossip-fueled rants during the Cup Final. Until like...eleven o’clock this morning.”  
  
She gasped, clasping both her hands over mouth and Killian might have to amend his previous statement – he was going to strangle Liam if he whistled again. “What happened at eleven o’clock?” Elsa asked.  
  
“Emma helped Jacob get the last piece of french toast off the plate on the counter,” Liam answered.

“That’s super weird that you know that,” Killian said. “Why do you know that?”  
  
“Because your ears did that thing again and you started smiling like you’d seen a comet or something. You know that one, Elsa? Where he just scored and juked out, like, every defender on the ice?”  
  
“There are two defenders on the ice. That’s how hockey works.”  
  
“Take my exaggerated point for what it is.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Ok, don’t be difficult.”  
  
“Guys,” Elsa sighed. They both glared at each other. “Children, both of you. Also, KJ you totally do that. You should patent it or something.”

“You think you can patent a look?” Killian asked. “There should be laws for that.”

“Not technically my forte, but in theory, I guess. You could market it as hockey star stares longingly at girlfriend he hopes to, one day, marry and fill that impossibly large Manhattan apartment with painfully adorable children.”  
  
“Kind of long to write on paperwork.”  
  
Elsa laughed, head thrown back and eyes closed lightly and Killian took a deep breath, any lingering tension in his shoulders evaporating as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

He should probably buy a ring.

Maybe after camp started.

Or they, at least, moved into their apartment.

Their _two bedroom_ apartment.

“He brings up a good point,” Liam grinned, kicking up a cloud of dirt. “So you’re for real on this then?”  
  
Killian nodded. “Why are you just repeating, El?”

“Force of habit. Insert cliché about married life here.”  
  
“Ok, rude,” Elsa growled, eyebrows pulled low and leaning over as well and Killian briefly considered testing out his own teleportation skills.

No such luck.

“You’re going to have to have a plan, KJ,” Elsa continued. “Liam had a plan.”  
  
Killian didn’t expect that. He furrowed his eyebrows and stared at his brother like he’d only just realized they were all sitting on the same swing set. “Did you really?”  
  
“Obviously,” Liam snapped. “From, like, the time the final buzzer went off in the National Championship game until it actually happened. Didn’t Mrs. V and Anna tell you this story?”  
  
“I definitely ignored it.”  
  
“Ok, well, take notes or something because this is sweeping romance.” Liam leaned around Killian, grinning at Elsa and she rolled her eyes fondly, tapping her fingers on the, frankly, enormous ring sitting on her left hand. “The season had just ended, we sucked, but we got better. And so went to Battery Park and we got shitty knishes from one of the street cart and overpriced twenty ounces of soda and I told her I’d loved her since I was sixteen and wanted do that for the rest of my life and I got down on one knee––”  
  
“––You better get down on one knee, KJ,” Elsa interrupted.

Liam nodded. “Yeah, seriously, there’s no point if you don’t get down on one knee. See that’s why you can’t do it on the ice.”  
  
“I’m not proposing on the ice,” Killian hissed, just barely keeping his voice about a shout and his eyes widened when Mrs. V shouted something about _are you three alright_ towards them. He waved a hand, not sure it was totally an answer.

“Can I get back to my story now?” Liam demanded.

“Finish your story, babe,” Elsa nodded. Killian rolled his eyes so hard it hurt. “Stop that, KJ.”  
  
“Anyway,” Liam continued. “We went to battery park, ate the knishes, I got down on one knee, gave the speech and there was a ring and a good amount of making out and then we let Anna plan a wedding.”  
  
“Banana is not planning my wedding,” Killian said. Elsa made that noise again. “Seriously, El, you need to relax. This is...happening eventually, but there’s not a ring yet and there’s got to be a ring, right? That’s part of the deal.”

Liam shrugged. “I mean, I think it helps.”  
  
“You should probably buy a ring, KJ. If you’re thinking. Or pondering. Or you know…”  
  
“One-hundred percent certain?” Killian finished.

Elsa beamed. “Yeah, exactly that. That way you’re ready when inspiration strikes or whatever.”

“That doesn’t seem romantic at all,” Liam muttered.

“Eh, I don’t know. There’s something to be said for spontaneity.”

“I guess.”

Killian opened his mouth, not entirely certain what he was going to say, but Mrs. V was standing in front of them, a knowing smile on her face and her hands on her hips and that’s probably where Elsa got her teleporting abilities from.

“Hey, Mrs. V,” Liam said evenly, sounding a bit too much like his fourteen-year-old counterpart and it felt like they’d just gotten caught sneaking uptown on the 1-train. “You need us for something?”

“I didn’t just come over here to stare at you,” she smiled. Killian nearly fell on the ground.

“God, that was harsh, Mrs. V,” he choked. “The Cup people are looking for us, huh?”

She nodded. “Perceptive kid.”  
  
“Grown adult, Mrs. V.”  
  
“Kid.”  
  
He shook his head, but there was something in between each one of his ribs that felt a bit warm and slightly familiar and she kissed the top of his head when she stepped forward, resting her hands on his shoulders. “We all know you picked your Cup day so we could all be here,” Mrs. V. said. “A nice kid too. Now, c’mon, they want to take pictures.”

They took pictures – and then took _more_ pictures – and FaceTime’d Anna so she could _be there_ and that ended up on several different sports blogs the next day and Killian didn’t think too much more about the plans and the stories and _one knee_ , but he didn’t ignore it either.

It was, he realized, because Emma kept smiling.

And really that wasn’t a bad thing.

That was, actually, a very good thing. That was kind of the best thing. The goal, in fact. If he were making puns. He wasn’t.

He was just...thinking.

Emma kept smiling and laughing and sitting on the couch in the house in Colorado with her legs draped over his and her fingers playing with his hair, nails brushing over the back of his neck and just behind his ear and Killian didn’t think she even realized she was doing it, just moving and shifting into his space and his life and his family.

 _His family_.

He absolutely wanted to marry her.

A lot.

So, maybe he wasn’t entirely ignoring the idea because it was the only thing he kept thinking about the entire week they were in Colorado and by the time they got back to New York he was so distracted that he tried to take someone else’s bags from JFK.

Emma was still asleep when he left the next morning – bags sitting just inside her apartment door because he’d already left his place and most everything was already in boxes and they were supposed to move in a couple of days and he hadn’t actually done much in the way of working out since they landed in Colorado.

Ariel was going to murder him.

Victor might throw a weight at him.

Killian wanted to run – quite literally, straight up Riverside Drive and up towards that bench on 110th Street and, at least, ten different people stared at him, eyes wide and phones out and he probably shouldn’t have worn a team-branded sweatshirt.

Everything else was packed.

He ignored them. He kept running and thinking and theorizing wasn’t the right word, but actually using daydreaming at some indeterminate time in the morning when it wasn’t quite humid yet and it didn’t quite smell like garbage and his hair was starting to stick to his temples, felt a little absurd.

It was totally daydreaming.

And he could picture it all. A family and a future and how much he wanted both of those things, just a bit desperately – the game and the roadtrips and trivia sent over text messages for like...as long as they both may live.

It took several dozen blocks for him to realize one, very important thing.

He was going to ask Emma Swan to marry him.

And he was going to do something about it.

Now.

Killian didn’t collapse on the bench next to him, just leaned against the side and tried to tug his phone out of his pocket without yanking the headphones out of his ears in the process and he was only slightly worried about damaging his phone when he started texting.

He wasn’t entirely prepared for the first ring.  

Or for Liam to nearly growl when he answered.

On the first ring.

“What?” Liam snapped. “What could you possibly want?”  
  
“It’s ten o’clock in the morning where you are,” Killian said and he was far too excited to acknowledge whatever noise Liam was making.

He hailed a cab instead. And the driver recognized him as soon as he stopped at the curb, eyes going wide and lips parting slightly. Liam was still talking in his ear.

“Yeah, yeah, hey,” Killian said, trying to smile when the guy started mumbling something about _a good Cup defense this year_. Liam was shouting. “Liam, you’re going to cause some kind of avalanche. Stop screaming at me.”  
  
“Why were you texting me? Are you in a cab right now? Gina’s going to kill you.”  
  
“If you tell Gina I took a cab to...what is it called?”  
  
“I honestly think you’re having some kind of emotional breakdown right now. Are you speaking English?”  
  
Killian groaned, letting his head fall back and the cab driver was glancing expectantly in the rearview mirror. “The Diamond District is a thing, right? Somewhere on 6th Ave?”

“Uh, yeah, it is, Cap,” the driver answered and Liam made a noise that was somewhere close to a guffaw. Killian pulled his head up.

“Thanks. You want to head there?”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
“Killian what is happening right now?” Liam demanded, a door closing on his side of the phone and that was actually nice. “And you’ve lived in New York your whole life, you’re telling me you don’t know that the Diamond District is on 6th and whatever cross street it is.”  
  
“You’re not helping your case,” Killian laughed. “And, uh...you know how to shop for an engagement ring?”

“You like a minder now?”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“Well I was going to text you later to be an ass about it and ask if you’d bought a ring yet, but I figured I’d wait until you’d at least, you know, unpacked your bags.”  
  
“We’re not going to unpack our bags. It doesn’t make any sense when we’re just going to move in a couple of days.”  
  
“Ah, yeah, that’s smart,” Liam agreed, smile obvious in his voice. “So, uh…”  
  
Killian clicked his tongue. “Do not brag.”  
  
“What could I possibly brag about? You’re going to make some kind of major life decision and I’m fairly certain it’s because you were so moved by my ability to create a romantic moment in Battery Park. If you propose in Battery Park I’ll never talk to you again though.”  
  
“Don’t tempt me,” Killian muttered. Liam made a noise. It might have just been his tongue sticking out in midair. “And I’m not going to propose in Battery Park or on the ice or...I don’t know what I want to do. I just know that I want to and I want to...to be ready. You know. For it.”  
  
“It?”  
  
“The moment? Something good.”  
  
“That’s awfully vague, Killian.”  
  
“I’ll figure it out when I get there.”  
  
Liam didn’t say anything for _hours_ and Killian wondered if they’d maybe managed to pause time, prone, as the Vankalds were to their teleportation abilities, but he heard a deep breath from the line in Colorado and he was fairly positive there was still a smile involved.

“This is good, Killian,” Liam said, low and intent and Killian tugged on his hair. That was a mistake. He’d run fifty blocks. “Were you running? Is that how it happened?”  
  
“Talk about mind reader,” Killian muttered and he couldn’t quite keep the emotion out of his voice or the slight shake and maybe both of those things were good too.

“Nah, just practice. Hey, hang up so you can put me on FaceTime and we can talk settings and band color.”  
  
“You made both those words up.”

“See, this is why you need me. C’mon. Hang up and let’s buy an engagement ring, huh?”  
  
He bought an engagement ring.

And put it in his gear bag that afternoon and started carting it back and forth to the Garden and practice and training camp and the moment never came, was lost between games and fan events and nights at the restaurant and Emma in his jersey.

Until, quite suddenly, the moment seemed to arrive in flashing, neon fashion.

With horns.

And confetti.

He’d spent most of the season telling the league it would be _fine_ and _good_ and _great for the impact of the sport across the world_ and they’d only just gotten back from a three-game road trip a few days before, still a bit rattled from the almost-concussion in Arizona and how tightly Emma had held onto him as soon as he closed the door behind him.

They were going to the Olympics.

The moment.

On an international stage.

Elsa answered on the second ring.

“I knew it,” she said, not letting him get a word out and Killian felt the smile inch across his face, that tiny, little flame of certainty sparking in the very center of him and this was going to happen.

He was going to marry Emma Swan.


	2. Concussion Protocol

“You know you’re on some kind of point streak?”  
  
Killian lifted his eyebrows, mouth curling into something that almost looked like a smile and Mary Margaret threw a pot on the floor. He laughed when Emma jumped.

“Oh, c’mon,” Emma grumbled. “That was terrifying. She’s going to do damage to the linoleum in her kitchen.”  
  
“That’s not even remotely true,” Mary Margaret muttered and Emma made some kind of triumphant noise, as if that proved she was being eavesdropped on. “Hi, Killian! Hi everyone else in the locker room!”  
  
“Hi, Mary Margaret,” Killian grinned, eyes flicking to the top of the phone screen when Emma audibly gagged. “That’s just being polite, Swan. I don’t know why you want me to ignore Mary Margaret when she’s feeding you all weekend.”  
  
Emma rolled her eyes, slumping into the corner of the couch and it was just as uncomfortable as it had been when she’d been sleeping on it.

She’d slept like crap the night before, tucked under blankets with a pillow she brought from home and she didn’t mention that to Killian, but he probably knew anyway. And the NHL seemed determined to keep the Rangers on the road for Thanksgiving.

Roland was incredibly disappointed.

Emma might have been too.

Emma absolutely was disappointed.

But it wasn’t _really_ a western swing, more just a three-game trip to Dallas Las Vegas and Arizona and front office didn’t think it was _prudent_ to send her.

It made Emma roll her eyes every time she thought about it.  

And Mary Margaret had resolutely refused to accept even the idea of Emma spending a single moment of her weekend alone – so she’d gone a dozen blocks uptown on Wednesday night and slept on the couch and woke up early to watch the parade with fancy hot chocolate and a questionable amount of homefries and they’d made pumpkin pie.

David wouldn’t eat the one with rum in it until after his mom went back to the hotel.

That made Emma roll her eyes too.

“Ok, that’s just patently incorrect,” Emma said, wincing when the arm of the couch seemed intent on dislocating her spine. “I am perfectly capable of feeding myself throughout the weekend. And you don’t get to make a single comment about my food intake when I know for a fact that Scarlet tried to eat fried onions out of a can yesterday.”

Killian’s eyes went wide, the sound of Will’s laugh echoing through the phone and, likely, off the walls of the visitor’s locker room in Arizona.  
“How do you know that?” Killian asked. “Also I refuse to take responsibility for that. I am not Scarlet’s father.”

“God forbid.”  
  
“Swan. Honestly.”  
  
“You really can’t let Ruby know anything,” she smiled and the look on his face did something to her pulse. “Or help you plan some kind of Thanksgiving feast in a hotel room.”  
  
“It wasn’t quite a feast,” Killian argued. “More just a questionable amount of us stuffed into one room and Lucas demanding several types of alcohol we aren’t really supposed to be having.”

“Troublemakers.”

“And,” Mary Margaret added, dropping onto the arm of the chair and barely missing Emma’s hair. “If Ruby wants to consume a questionable amount of alcohol then she should have waited until she got home.”  
  
Emma’s eyes were going to sustain permanent damage from constant rolling. Killian might actually injure himself from laughing.

“How much rum went into the pie this year?” he asked, voice still shaking lightly and Emma wasn’t sure what she was doing with her face, only that he noticed.

Figured.

She should have demanded a spot on the road trip. If Ruby got to go, she should have gone. That didn’t make any sense at all.

She should have come up with some kind of fan event. About Thanksgiving. In Phoenix. And a team that hadn’t won more than ten games all season.

Mary Margaret bit back her knowing smile and, eventually, Emma would have to thank her for that, certain Ruby wouldn’t have stopped herself from voicing several different opinions on pie and rum and the way Emma’s entire expression changed as soon as Killian used the phrase _this year_ out loud.

Like it was some of tradition or something.

She needed more rum-filled pie.

“A ton,” Mary Margaret answered when she realized Emma was having some kind of life-changing realization in the corner of her couch. “But that was mostly because you guys were on the PK and Emma kept running back to the TV to yell and forgetting how much she’d already put into the mix.”

Emma couldn’t really slump down the couch anymore – she was an adult human being, after all – but she certainly made an attempt, flush rising in her cheeks and the back of her, likely, bruised neck.

She was going to punch Killian as soon as he landed in New York.

That face was stupid and attractive and stupid attractive and he kept staring at her like several different words she was, maybe, willing to acknowledge.

“You were making pies while we were playing, Swan?” he asked and Emma was, at least, eighty-two percent positive she heard Will cackling somewhere.

She nodded. “Eric had some kind of private event and I think A was actually really mad because it broke a record or something of watching away games, but then Regina reminded her that meant she didn’t have to come into the city and that ended that conversation. So, yeah, there were pies made a few hours earlier than normal.”  
  
“Going off schedule, love, I’m impressed.”  
  
“Oh, shut up.”

Will made another noise in the background and Killian ran his hand through his hair, rolling his shoulders in a way Emma had come to notice meant something important. He was thinking and pondering and he really was on some kind of crazy point streak.

It was a sidebar in _The Post_ that morning.

“And,” Emma added pointedly. “It wasn’t so much my decision to go off schedule as it was trying not to be too worried about your shitty penalty kill.”  
  
“That is unfounded criticism, Emma,” Will shouted. Killian shook his head, glaring when an arm worked its way into the frame and tried to tug his phone out of his hand.

“Get the hell out of here, Scarlet,” Killian hissed. He couldn’t really keep his balance on the bench in front of his locker, only one of his skates on, but he tried to kick at Will anyway.

He nearly fell in his locker.

“God damnit, both of you,” Robin sighed, joining the fray with a put-upon look on his face and Emma wasn’t sure who laughed louder, her or Mary Margaret. “Cap can you please put your skates on? There is an actual game to play here.”

“I am doing that,” Killian muttered, but he didn’t move towards the left skate, just kept staring at his phone screen with wide eyes and some attempt at telepathy that Emma nearly understood.

She smiled.

“Emma is making sweeping generalizations about our penalty kill,” Will said. He kicked Killian’s skate closer, elbowing his side until he slid to the edge of the bench. “We are not that bad, Em,” he continued. “And I really don’t think it’s fair that you’re yelling at us about it.”  
  
Emma hummed. “Of course you are, Scarlet. You’re great. That’s why you guys are twentieth in the league and gave up, count ‘em, two goals last night.”  
  
“That doesn’t seem very good,” Mary Margaret added. Will scowled.

“Ok, well, when you put it like that, it doesn’t seem very good,” Will conceded. “But! And this is a really big but, this Las Vegas team is questionably good on the power play. You have those stats memorized too, Emma?”  
  
“Third in the league on the power play. Something like twenty-six percent. It’s insane.”

“They’re a legit team now,” Robin muttered, waving slightly when Emma’s gaze flickered towards him. “Hey, Emma. Hey, Mary Margaret. I heard you guys baked incredibly alcoholic pies on Wednesday night.”  
  
“The string of gossip on this team is ridiculous,” Killian muttered, but there was a note of _something_ in his voice and Emma wanted the game to be over and the plane to be in New York and her boyfriend to be back in their apartment with their incredibly comfortable bed.

She sat up a bit straighter, shaking her hair onto her back and she could see Killian’s shoulders shift when the slightly dim light in Mary Margaret’s loft reflected off the chain around her neck.

“Henry called me,” Emma pointed out and she hadn’t mentioned that in the last two days.

It felt like something _big_ and meaningful and Henry was more than settled in his life with the Mills-Locksley family and the New York Rangers and the National Hockey League, but, sometimes, he was still a kid and still nervous about it all being ripped away and he called her.

She liked that he called her.

She liked that he, still, depended on her a little bit.

And he was almost as loud as Emma when he yelled at the TV.

“And,” Emma continued. “Henry’s got no proof of the alcohol content regarding those pies. I’m a responsible adult figure in his life, I promise.”  
  
Robin grinned. “Of course you are. I’m not ever disputing that.”

Her heart flew into the back of her throat, growing several sizes in the process and it wasn’t entirely comfortable. “And the PK is pretty awful,” Killian added, knocking his shoulder against Will’s when he made another noise. “It is, Scarlet. Even Rol knows it. He texted both me and Robin about it during your fried onion from a can feast yesterday.”

“Aw, c’mon,” Emma shouted and Killian flashed her a smile that sent her heart back to its predetermined spot in her chest. Where it promptly tried to beat its way out. “You can’t just steal my phrasing word for word like that.”  
  
“I think that’s a compliment, Swan.”  
  
“I think you’re a word thief.”

“Be prepared for Roland Locksley’s detailed opinion about our incredibly shitty penalty kill later on tonight, love. He’s going to need an outlet and Gina hates any stat that won’t help us get paid more.”

“I’m leaning more towards hearing about your point streak, if we’re being honest,” Emma said. “And a complete play by play of Robin’s goal on Wednesday. Apparently his post-goal celebration was the stuff of adorable legends.”

“It absolutely was,” Robin agreed. “There was jumping and some kind of rhyme scheme involved. He reenacted it for me yesterday.”  
  
“Aw, that’s even more adorable,” Mary Margaret muttered, sliding down the couch and resting her head on Emma’s shoulder. “You think he’ll do it for Ruth later? She’ll be charmed.”  
  
“Yeah, and then start questioning the impending arrival of her own painfully adorable grandchildren,” Emma muttered.

Mary Margaret’s eyes nearly fell out of her head.

“Yes and yes, on both fronts,” Robin said. “Although, I’m going to go ahead and assume Mrs. Nolan might have some other concerns before she starts trying to adopt my kid as some kind of pseudo grandchild.”

Emma ignored that – fairly positive that Ruth Nolan would have _several_ questions about _several_ different fronts and, with no David buffer later that night, would have no problem asking all of them until she got an answer she was pleased with.

Robin made a face when she didn’t argue, gaze darting between the phone screen in Killian’s hand and the side of Killian’s face because Killian absolutely, positively would turn his head, and Will was still, somehow, grumbling about penalty kill stats.  
  
“Ok, ok, can we backtrack for a second?” he asked sharply. “Em, why do you know about Las Vegas’ questionably good power play?”  
  
“Because they’re some kind of feel-good sports story and Ruby Lucas is the media relations manager for this team?” Emma asked, sarcasm falling from every letter.  Will made some kind of noise that might have been an agreement. “And,” she added. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Scarlet, but I also work for this team. And its shitty power play. I think that gives me some sort of rooting interest. Tell Sean he can’t try and block shots and then never get up again.”  
  
“Arthur mentioned that to him this morning,” Robin muttered, grabbing a roll of tape from the top shelf in Killian’s locker. “God, Cap, why do you have so much tape? It’s like you’re a convenience store up there.”  
  
Killian didn’t answer, just shook his head slowly and rolled his eyes towards the ceiling and Emma was certain she was still blushing.

He hadn’t put on his other skate yet.

“Because my sister is dating our equipment manager,” he said. Will mumbled something that sounded a lot like _playing favorites_ and Killian held his hand out expectantly towards Robin. “Give me that. I’m apparently on some kind of point streak. I don’t want to break my stick.”

It probably shouldn’t have been nearly as attractive as it was.

It was normal – Killian’s wrists twisting and tape turning around the blade of his stick and it was _routine_. Emma was sure she’d seen him do it eight-hundred times. She’d seen hundreds of hockey players do it eight-thousand times, but there was something about the whole thing, the rhythm he fell into and the practiced ease and she knew he wasn’t even thinking about it.

Robin let out a low whistle when Killian tossed the tape back towards him, stick wrapped and a smile tugging on the corners of his mouth.

“Are you trying to set some kind of record, Cap?” he asked. “That was ridiculous.”  
  
Will muttered something else under his breath – a string of words suspiciously close to _showing off for Emma_ – and Robin nodded in agreement, lower lip jutted out slightly when he tried not to laugh into the phone.

“Oh yeah, that makes sense,” Robin continued, clearly unaware that he was the only one participating in the conversation anymore. “Em, you going later?”  
  
Killian made a noise in the back of his throat – a mix between a groan and a sigh and maybe just the audible version of trying not to throw his skate at his teammates. Robin held up his hands in surrender, backing up until he was almost out of frame, and Will was doing an admirable job of not actually laughing.

He’d slumped onto his thighs.

And none of them were taking this game seriously.

It was, admittedly, the day after Thanksgiving and they’d be home that night and they’d been gone for nearly a week and she could almost make out the bags under Killian’s eyes. He probably hadn’t slept very well either.

“Am I going later?” Emma echoed, staring at Robin as if he’d lost his mind. “You know your kid has been texting me about your shitty power play all day too.”  
  
“Which one?”  
  
“Henry, obviously. He was more upset than I was when you guys lost on Wednesday night.”

“So that’s a yeah on the going later, then?” Will mumbled, mostly into his pads.

“Yeah,” Emma snapped. “That’s a yeah. A will have a conniption if we don’t all show up.”  
  
“We’re bringing more pie,” Mary Margaret said. She hadn’t lifted her head up yet. “On pain of death because A’s lost her mind.”  
  
“I think they call it nesting,” Will corrected, waving a dismissive hand in the air when Killian muttered _oh my God_ under his breath. “Or just the precursor to insanity.”  
  
“How do you know that?”  
  
“I’m super witty and quick on my feet in conversations?”  
  
“Yeah, that’s not the answer you were looking for,” Emma sighed. He grinned at her. “Stop getting all your information from Belle, it’s cheating.”

Will stuck his tongue out – a picture of maturity in the middle of a locker room covered in Coyotes logos – and Emma tilted her head slightly, nodding towards the door she knew Killian couldn’t see.

He nodded.

They were getting good at that whole telepathy thing.

“Move, Scarlet,” Killian said, half a second away from pushing Will off the bench. He tapped his stick against Will’s skates, properly laced and on both of his feet, smiling back at the phone screen when Emma let out a sound that might have actually been a giggle.

Mary Margaret looked close to tears.

It took, exactly, three deep breaths, six, rather long steps, and one door slamming closed on Emma’s end for them to be, almost, alone.  
  
Killian never put his other skate on.

“The most frustrating group of human beings in the entire world,” Killian grumbled, sliding down a wall in a dim corner, but his smile was genuine when he glanced up at Emma and they were coming home that night.

“It’s your fault for answering the phone in the locker room,” she said. “You’re practically asking for an audience at that point.”

“Not on a normal team.”  
  
“This is a good team.”

He sighed, but didn’t argue and Emma bit her lip before she could start spouting a stream of increasingly sentimental thoughts. That couch had been impossible to fall asleep on. “Are you ok, love?” Killian asked, the edge falling from his voice and that was cheating.

She wasn’t sure what game they were playing, yet, but it was definitely cheating.

“I’m fine,” Emma said. It wasn’t a lie. She was tired, but that was almost expected on road trips by now and she was happy and they’d made pie to bring to the restaurant the night before. “Are you? You looked like you were gunning for a fight.”  
  
“On Wednesday?”  
  
“A little bit.”  
  
“That’s not really my game, Swan,” Killian said. “And if we’re going to try and get the league to listen to this Olympic idea, punching winless teams in the face isn’t going to help much.”  
  
“They’re going to listen,” Emma promised, well aware that she couldn’t, but Killian’s mouth twitched and he was almost smiling and that had been the point. “But Vegas wasn’t winless. What are you worried about?”

He didn’t answer immediately, eyes falling to his stretched out legs and he’d never put his jersey on either. “They’re taking their time,” Killian sighed. “This whole thing. It’s after Thanksgiving, Swan. They’re going to have to decide sooner or later and playing like crap is not going to sway anyone.”  
  
“Playing like crap?” Emma repeated skeptically and he sighed again, letting his head fall back against the wall.

And really she shouldn’t have been surprised.

Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers and emerging face of the entire goddamn NHL, needed something to fight for. It had always been a Cup run, but they’d done that and there was a parade and a contract extension and, now, the league was dragging its feet on the Olympics and opportunity and he was going to get them there.

Emma knew it.

Even if he didn’t.

“You know Arthur broke two whiteboards?” Killian asked, tugging on the hair curled behind his ear. “He spent most of the third period actually drawing on paper.”  
  
Emma nodded. “Ruby was mad. Some guy from _The Daily News_ heard about it and wanted to make a big thing and she was trying to put metaphorical fires most of the night. I was getting live updates of her frustration.”  
  
“Is that why you didn’t sleep?”  
  
“Presumptuous.”  
  
“Nah, assumptive at best. Or worst? How would you define that?”  
  
“I’m not sure any of this is a compliment so…”  
  
“I wouldn’t go so far as compliment,” Killian admitted, laughing softly. “More observational. And Locksley is going to murder me if I keep mumbling about the stiffness of mattresses or the legacy of the Olympic games.”

Emma smiled, toying with the ring around her neck. “It’s going to work. Shitty power play notwithstanding, it’s not like you guys are on some crazy losing skid. And I wasn’t lying about that point streak.”  
  
“I know you weren’t, Swan. Rol’s been very vocal about that too.”  
  
“Jeez, beat to the punch by a seven-year-old. That’s kind of rough.”  
  
Killian shook his head and she could feel the nervous energy even on the other side of the country. “It’s not a race,” he muttered. “If it were, you’d be winning.”  
  
“That’s a bad line, Cap.”  
  
“True, but it doesn’t make it any less honest.” He took a deep breath, the pads on his shoulders shifting with the effort and Emma could smell pumpkin pie wafting through the air, like the world was trying to make some kind of heavy-handed point with desserts and scents and a questionable amount of alcohol. “I wasn’t entirely prepared to become the leader of the Olympic movement, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” Emma nodded. “But there’s a reason for that.”  
  
“Swan…”  
  
“No, c’mon, don’t be like that. You win a Conn-Smythe and a Hart and get some crazy extension and you’re going to tell me that we don’t deserve to get to the Olympics too? That’s insane.”

Killian’s eyes narrowed as soon as the words were out of her mouth and for half a moment Emma wasn’t entirely sure what she’d said.

He dropped his phone.

“What did you say?” Killian asked, voice gruff and that nervous energy had multiplied tenfold and evolved into something that, Emma hoped, was excited.  
  
“It’s not certain yet.”  
  
“Swan, none of this is certain, but you changed pronouns.”  
  
“Well, it seemed unfair to suggest that we both won a Conn-Smythe and Hart.”  
  
“We did.”  
  
“Jeez,” she sighed, but she was probably blushing again and her pulse was doing something impossible in her veins. “Too much, Cap. Way too much.”  
  
“Why the change, Swan?”  
  
“It’s not certain yet,” Emma warned and he widened his eyes when she kept deflecting. She clicked her teeth together, trying to work out some of the residual energy she could feel racing through her and maybe the conversation would be easier if she started jogging up and down the hallway. “Rubes and I were talking about it when you started talking about it and neither one of us were high enough up any theoretical ladders for Sochi, so when the league decides to stop being a dick about this and agrees to let us all go, then uh...USA Hockey is interested in both of us going. And so is Zelena.”  
  
“You talked to Zelena about it?”  
  
Emma’s neck felt impossibly stiff when she nodded again and Killian hadn’t blinked in several decades. At least. “That was part of the meeting when they told me I couldn’t come on the swing,” she said. “And like I said, USA Hockey already reached out to Ruby who then told me and said she wouldn't go if I didn’t go and Zelena heard about it and, well, I think that’s a good sign, don’t you?”  
  
She’d probably think about the look on his face for the rest of her life and that tiny, little voice in the back of her mind that, occasionally, wondered if this was all real was a silent as it had ever been. Emma wondered if it had disappeared entirely.

Killian still hadn’t blinked and she was ready to make some quip about eye drops, but she was admittedly distracted by how goddamn blue his eyes were and the slight quirk of his mouth and the other side of the country had never felt that far and that close all at the same time.

She was going to eat so much pie later.

“I think that’s a good sign,” Killian muttered softly and Emma felt it in her toes. “You know I love you, right? Just…” He shook his head, the smile moving across his face in slow motion and Emma bit her lip. “I’d want you to go. If we go.”  
  
“When we go.”  
  
He beamed at her. His eyes were frustratingly blue. “When we go,” Killian repeated. “Then, at the risk of sounding incredibly selfish, I’d really want you there.”  
  
“That works out fairly well, since I already told USA Hockey I’d go if the league agreed.”

Killian dropped his phone again.

“Surprise,” Emma said when he was back on screen, waving her free hand through the air and slightly stunned was a very good look on him. “Rubes and I have been trying to brainstorm community relations ideas for weeks. You’re not very observant”

His laugh was shaky and treading slightly close to disbelief, but he was still smiling and his tongue darting in between his lips made Emma question all the reasons she hadn’t gone on the road trip – again.

“I think they’re going to agree soon,” Emma continued. “The league, I mean. USA Hockey is obviously all in on this and recruiting front office even if players don’t get permission. That’s going to wake up the commissioner's gang and then we can win a gold medal.”  
  
“Just like that?” Killian asked.

“I don’t see why not. You’re on some kind of point streak.”

He chuckled, running a hand through his hair and Emma could hear Phillip calling from the other end of the hallway, pregame sounds making their way through the phone speakers. “That is true” Killian said, nodding towards the bodiless voice and Phillip shouted _hey, Emma_. “You know, the greater Phoenix area has over two-hundred golf courses?”

Emma was going to do serious damage to her lip if she kept biting it, particularly if she kept trying to smile at the same time, but the muscles in her face hadn't gotten that particularly memo and they were really, impossibly good at flirting with each other.

“That seems like an impractical amount,” she said. “Who could golf that much? And in Arizona? Way too hot.”  
  
“It’s a dry heat.”  
  
“Ah, of course. Why do you know that?”  
  
“Swan. Everything. I know everything.”  
  
“Yuh huh,” Emma muttered, but there were butterflies in the pit of her stomach and the pie smell was getting stronger. She was positive. That felt like a sign. “The Coyotes logo used to be an actual Coyote with a hockey stick, which is as impractical as two-hundred golf courses. Although the new one kind of freaks me out too. So I’m not sure if it’s really better.”  
  
“It’s definitely not. The howling thing is ridiculous. Maybe that’s why no one comes to their games.”  
  
“Or, you know, they’ve set some kind of losing record to start the season.”  
  
He smirked at her, eyes just a hint brighter and the nerves gone as quickly as they’d come, falling back into banter and flirting and she was going to kiss several clichés worth of living daylights out him later that night.

“Yeah, that too,” Killian said. “You’d really go? To the Olympics, I mean. If we…when we go,” he amended when he heard Emma’s vaguely frustrated sigh. “It’s going to be a shit ton of overbearing team.”  
  
“You’re the one who’s looking fight-ready not me. Did you miss the part where Rubes and I have been talking about this already? Or how great it’d be not to go to New Jersey and get those Casino Night tables out of storage? Because that’d be fantastic.”

“That’s definitely why we should go to the Olympics.”  
  
“Obviously.”  
  
“Cap,” Phillip called, dragging out the nickname or, possibly, rank and Killian squeezed his eyes closed. “Arthur’s getting super pissy and threatening whiteboards again.”  
  
“You better go” Emma smiled. Mary Margaret dropped another pot. “I think Reese’s is trying to speak to me in code. Keep that streak alive, huh?”

He winked at her.

Idiot.

They were totally going to win a gold medal.

“Of course, Swan. Save me some pie.”

* * *

 

Roland practically threw himself at Emma and Mary Margaret as soon the door to the restaurant closed behind them, Regina’s cry of _be careful_ barely audible over his “Did you bring pie? Is there pie? Henry said you made pie!”

“There is pie” Emma said, the smile on her face natural as Rolan kept bouncing up and down on his toes. “But the game hasn’t even started yet, Rol. Don’t we have onion rings to eat?”

He deflated slightly, but he didn’t seem all that put out by the prospect of onion rings and, eventual, pie. “We thought you weren’t coming,” he shouted. “It’s almost puck drop and Henry said you made pie.”  
  
“We brought the pie, Rol. There is no pie emergency.”

“Good pie?”  
  
“Can you name a bad pie?”  
  
“Key lime.”

“That was a much quicker answer than I was expecting,” Emma muttered to Mary Margaret.

She shrugged in response, pulling Roland away Emma’s side so he wasn’t twisting up her jersey – the Stanley Cup jersey she’d gotten the season before and Ruth’s eyes had widened slightly when she noticed the patch on Emma’s shoulder as soon as she slid into the cab.

“I mean he’s not wrong,” Ariel said, joining the conversation with one hand on her stomach and the other pressed into the small of her back. She smiled when she noticed Ruth. “Hi, Mrs. Nolan, I’m so glad you guys could make it.”  
  
“As if we had another choice,” Emma said. Ariel glared.

“Did you talk to Cap about whatever he was doing with his face on Wednesday night? Because it was weird. It was weird, right Gina?”  
  
Regina waved both her hands in the air, taking a step towards Roland to wrap an arm around his shoulders. He only grumbled a little. “I’ve heard it’s going to be fine,” she said and Ariel groaned at the vague tone of her voice.

“What does that even mean?”

“It means the league might be done dragging its feet,” Emma explained. “And Arthur yelled at Sean.”  
  
“I’m surprised Arthur didn’t yell at everyone. Or make them skate blue lines yesterday.”  
  
“He did,” Regina and Emma said at the same time.

Ariel’s whole body sagged with the force of her sigh. “Damn, I miss everything now. Ah, sorry, Rol. Em, tell Cap I don’t like being out of the loop. Just because I’m not going on the road does not mean I have lost my...”

“Desire to know everything?” Mary Margaret finished.

“Ok, well, it sounds mean when you say it like that. And that PK looked like garbage in Vegas. It was like they were playing in slow motion. I don’t think Sean even realized he was still holding a stick. Or could use it.”  
  
“God,” Emma muttered. “Tell us how you really feel.”  
  
“I’m really mad we broke this streak. We were at, like, three straight seasons.”  
  
“So we start a new one.”  
  
Four slightly stunned expressions turned towards Emma and she would have retreated if there weren’t a seven-year-old trying to pull pies out of her hands.

Mary Margaret was _definitely_ going to cry.

Or maybe start live-texting David updates of the entire night. He wanted updates of the game, anyway, and proof the entire New York Rangers contingent appreciate the pies they’d made.

He probably wasn’t expecting Roland to try and eat all of it.

Or for Emma to be some kind of font of positivity.

“What?” Emma asked and it was a pointless question because she already knew the answer. Ariel and Mary Margaret both shrugged, Regina almost looking like she was about to smile and Ruth’s eyes traced across Emma’s face, falling down to the ring that had, somehow, worked its way over the top of her jersey.

Figured.

“Nothing, nothing, nothing,” Mary Margaret promised, but here eyes were a little glossier than usual and Emma could hear her take a deep breath. “I just...nothing. We need forks to eat pie, right?”  
  
“Presumably,” Emma said, smile, somehow, getting even wider when Roland let out a noise that was fairly close to a _yelp_ of excitement. “So, uh...Regina what if we didn’t eat food before pie?”  
  
Regina smiled.

It was a Thanksgiving miracle.

“Yeah,” she said. “I think we can do that.”

They made it through a whole pie by the time the first period ended – still zeroes across the board and the PK wasn’t horrible, but there were a few close calls, Roland standing on his chair because it made him _shout louder, Emma_ and Henry punching air like he was getting ready to drop gloves.

It wasn’t a perfect game, but it wasn’t a bad game and, then, something happened. It was as if a switch had been flicked or someone had twisted a great, big dial that controlled the speed of NHL hockey games and, suddenly, there were hits and checks and whistles and a distinct lack of whistles.

Roland nearly jumped off the chair.

Emma’s eyes couldn’t keep up with the puck, gaze darting across the TV screen and she wasn’t sure she was breathing. Her lungs burned from the distinct lack of oxygen, tapping her foot impatiently when a Coyotes defender pinned Killian against the boards, trying to work the puck to his stick or his skate and they spent an eternity pressed on the glass.

“Move it, move it, move it,” Emma mumbled, reaching up to grab her ring before she realized her neurons had processed that particularly demand.

“What is that?” Ruth asked. Emma’s neck cracked when she glanced to her right, Ruth’s expectant expression entirely out of place in a restaurant full of anxious front office and family and Emma hadn’t stopped tapping her foot.

“Hmm?”

“That ring. You’re wearing a ring.”  
  
“Oh,” Emma blinked. Killian got the puck away from the boards, moving it up to Phillip who was immediately hit at center ice, spinning out and losing possession in the neutral zone.   

Roland might have growled.

Henry cursed.

“Hey,” Regina and Emma said at the same time, Mary Margaret’s tongue clicking in reproach.

Henry slumped in his seat. “That should have been a penalty,” he muttered, grabbing another forkful of pie. “He was totally defenseless.”  
  
“I mean, he wasn’t totally wrong,” Ariel admitted. She’d commandeered a pie for herself.

Emma winced when her neck did something else it probably wasn’t supposed to, glancing up when Robin missed the net wide right and they were still in the zone and still on the ice and they probably should have changed.

“Get them off the ice,” Mary Margaret shouted, half standing and half sitting. She was wearing a custom jersey. She’d bought it at the start of the season. “They’ve been out there forever. Look, Scarlet can barely skate.”  
  
“Oh, tell him that when they get home,” Regina chuckled. She tugged on the back of Roland’s jersey and it only took one incredibly pointed look and slightly raised eyebrow for him to sit down.

Emma sighed and she didn’t really want anymore pie, but she could feel Ruth’s curious stare boring into the side of her head and she needed some kind of distraction.

She really didn’t want to get drunk in front of Ruth Nolan.

Pie was her only option.

“That wasn’t an answer,” Ruth said a few moments later, the first line back on the ice and hits coming fast and furious and Emma was also considering standing on her chair. “I thought they were supposed to keep their championship rings.”

Emma glanced at her, trying to keep one eye trained on the game. “If you know what it is already, I’m not sure what it is you’re asking.”

“Oh, yes you do, sweetheart. And I think you’re thinking it too. About asking. And questions. Big, important questions.”  
  
“Seems rather assumptive don’t you think?”

“No,” Ruth laughed. “I don’t. And I don’t think you do either.”  
  
“Yuh huh.”  
  
“That’s not an argument. You’re wearing a jersey and a ring already, why not add another one?”  
  
“Are you trying to plan a wedding, Ruth?” Emma asked, silently pleased that she’d managed to get _that_ word out without stuttering over her. Mary Margaret almost choked on her pie. “Because there is no wedding happening here.”  
  
“Tell that to the ring you keep tugging on when you get nervous.”  
  
“What could I be nervous about?”

Ruth shrugged, but it was the most _knowing_ shrug in the history of the entire world. “I’ve known you for years, sweetheart and I’ve never heard you so certain of anything as you’ve been this entire weekend. And,” she added, tugging lightly on Emma’s sleeve. “You light up like several different skyscrapers whenever your phone goes off.”

“She’s not wrong,” Ariel murmured through a mouthful of pie. “Something, something, the top of the Chrysler Building.”  
  
“Are you quoting things at me?” Emma asked and Ariel twisted her mouth into something that was probably supposed to be the visualization of a shoulder shrug. “And it’s shine like the top of the Chrysler Building. If you want to get technical.”  
  
Ariel opened her mouth, but her eyes went wide before she could say anything and Henry cursed again, a string of words he’d definitely picked up from Scarlet.

Emma nearly ripped her ring off its chain.

Killian was down, helmet resting on the ice and Emma could just make out the slight shudder that went through his whole body, like he was trying to take a deep breath or rediscover his center of gravity.

She didn’t remember standing up until she heard the fork fall out of her hand, nails digging into her palm with her fingers wrapped around her ring.

“What happened?” Emma demanded, not sure who she was asking. She didn’t look away from the TV, bouncing slightly on the balls of her and Ariel was already on the phone.

She was dimly aware of the commentators in the background, the noise pumping through the speakers in the restaurant, but the words didn’t seem register –  _went in fast...blindside...hit the boards hard...concussion protocol._

That one clicked.

“Concussion protocol,” Emma snapped, jerking towards Ariel, but she waved her hand through the air, pushing away from the table with her phone against her ear. “God damnit, show a fucking replay. Shit, ah, God, sorry, Rol.”

Roland was too busy yelling to notice. Henry was still swearing. So was Mary Margaret. Ruth looked stunned.

The replay in slow motion seemed to slink _through_ Emma and she knew that was impossible, but she couldn’t catch her breath and her mouth had gone dry from hanging open for what felt like several years.

He’d been skating into the defensive zone, gone back to try and get the puck off the boards, shoulders turned towards the glass when a Coyotes winger slammed into him. Killian’s head hit first and Emma’s breath caught – even on the fucking replay – tongue darting out between her lips when he crumpled onto the ice.

He laid on the ice for a few moments and Emma could just make out the way his eyes squeezed shut, stick a few feet away where he’d dropped it. It took a few tries to get back up, working onto his hands and knees with Robin crouched next to him and Phillip trying to pull Will away from several different players in Arizona jerseys.

“Oh fuck,” Emma breathed. “That was...that really wasn’t a penalty?”  
  
Henry shook his head, lips pressed together tightly. He nodded back towards the TV and Killian was standing, but Emma could tell how shaky his legs were and it took longer than normal to get back to the bench.

“Ok, ok, ok,” Emma muttered, not quite sure what she was saying, but positive she had to keep saying it. Her heart felt like it was hammering against her ribcage and she couldn’t stop moving, jumping instead of just bobbing. “I need my phone. Where’s my phone? God, where’d A go?”

“Your pocket, Em,” Mary Margaret said. “And I think A’s trying to talk to Victor.”

Emma nodded – it felt like her brain was moving with her, bouncing around her skull and she couldn't get her phone out of her pocket. She was being thwarted by her jeans.

And she’d totally been thinking about the same questions Ruth Nolan had.

In their two-bedroom apartment with a stolen Conn-Smythe.

“Damn,” Emma sighed. They were taking him to the locker room. Or, at least trying, Victor yanking on the back of his jersey and nodding towards the tunnel and there was a cut on Killian’s forehead.

She nearly dislocated her thumb trying to text Ruby, demands for updates and information and updates as soon as there were updates to be had.  

He didn’t play the rest of the night.

And Emma didn’t sit down the rest of the night.

She brought the pie with her when she left the restaurant, promising Ruth and Mary Margaret she was _fine_ and it was an insultingly obvious lie, but they didn’t argue her cab.

The text message came fifteen blocks before she got home, a quick buzz in her hand that took her by surprise and she coudln’t be doing her blood pressure any favors.

**Not concussed. Bruised. Incredibly Sore. But not concussed. Also incredibly glad to be home. With you.**

Emma exhaled, closing her eyes lightly and letting her head fall back against the top of the seat.

_I was freaking out._

**Lucas mentioned. Victor knows what he’s doing though. Definitely not concussed.**

_That guy should get fined. And punched. Several times._

**He probably will. I can’t guarantee that second one. We don’t play in Arizona again for awhile.**

_Maybe I can get Scarlet to give me two minutes the next time._

**Don’t tempt him, love. He’ll totally do it if you ask.**

Emma laughed, the noise sounding foreign in the quiet cab and she still couldn’t catch her breath. She felt like she’d done several days worth of Arthur’s blue-line sprints.

_Did you leave yet?_

**About to take off, actually. Now that he knows i’m not going to die somewhere over Kansas, Locksley’s already asleep.**

_Considerate of him._

_I’m really glad you’re ok._

_I think I made Ruby mad_.

**She’ll live.**

_There’s still pie._

It was, easily, the most ridiculous thing she’d could have said to her professional-hockey-playing boyfriend just a few hours after he’d been cleared of concussion-like symptoms, but she’d only just remembered she’d never actually answered his _I love you_ earlier and Emma’s heart was somewhere on the ground in the middle of Amsterdam Ave.

What an idiot.

Ruth Nolan’s questions were echoing in her head.

**Good.**

It was after midnight when she heard the lock click in the front door and Emma didn’t really think when she flung herself off the couch, sprinting across the room and slamming into Killian’s gear bag as much as his actually body.

And, really, it probably wasn’t the right thing to do – even if he wasn’t concussed, he was still bruised and slightly battered and, quite obviously, exhausted – but Emma’s mind was racing and worried and Killian smiled when his arm inched around her waist, tugging her even closer so he could press a kiss to her hair.

“Hey,” Killian laughed, leaning back to try and look at her. He couldn’t. Her head was buried in his chest. “It’s fine, Swan. Everything’s fine.”

Emma took a deep breath, pushing up on her toes to brush the tips of her fingers over the slightly purple bruise on the side of his forehead. “Fine,” she challenged and he hummed in agreement. “I might punch that guy in the face.”

“Although I appreciate the offers to defend my honor, love, I don’t know if that’ll help inspire the league to let us go show off hockey to the world.”

“Yeah, probably not,” Emma grumbled, blinking quickly when she realized what he’d said. “Wait, what?”

Killian grinned at her, ducking his head to brush his lips over hers quickly and she’d probably think about his propensity to _kiss first_ for the rest of the weekend. “It’s just a rumor,” he said. “But Victor told me he heard some of the med staff in Arizona talking about schedules for PyeongChang and how many people USA Hockey was willing to send. He claimed they all sounded fairly concrete.”

She could hear the excitement in his voice – the same pick-up it had from nerves earlier in the day replaced with optimism and hope and maybe they were both growing as people or something, right there in the doorway of their two-bedroom apartment.

“I knew it,” Emma said, tugging lightly on his league-mandated tie. “And, seriously, no concussion? How was that even possible?”  
  
“Are you doubting Victor’s diagnosis?”  
  
“Obviously not. I’m not hoping you’re concussed. It was just...it was a bad hit and they kept replaying it during the third period. The third period you didn’t come back out for.”  
  
“Precautionary.”  
  
“Because they thought you were concussed.”  
  
“Which I’m not.”

“So I’ve heard. What even happened?”  
  
Killian shrugged and his eyes widened slightly when he realized Emma was still wearing his jersey. “Is this the same one from the Cup Finals?”

“You’re deflecting.”  
  
“I’m curious.”  
  
“Killian!”

He licked his lips, directing them back towards the couch and Emma didn’t object when he tugged her onto his legs. “I honestly have no idea,” he admitted. “The first period was fine and then they came out flying in the second and we were always half a step behind and I didn’t even see him coming until I slammed into the boards. I think they’re just pissed at how shitty they are. You know, collectively, and we just got the brunt of that.”  
  
“But not concussed?” Emma asked again.

“Not concussed,” Killian said. “Why do you keep asking that, love? I’ve been hurt before. I will, presumably, get hurt at some point again. It’s kind of part of the deal.”  
  
“I know, I know, I know, but…”  
  
She trailed off, not entirely sure how to explain what she wasn’t sure she understood and Killian’s eyebrows furrowed when she didn’t say anything. “But?” he prompted, nosing at her neck and, probably, breathing in her hair.

“I love you,” Emma said, nearly shouting the words in his face and this was not going according to plan at all. There hadn’t been a plan. Killian smiled. “And I just...I realized I hadn’t said it before and that would have been such a shitty thing if you’d been hurt and we’ve got to go win a gold medal now and I want to do all of that. With you.”

And eventually, maybe, they’d stop doing that _kiss each other in response to major declarations_ , but it wasn’t that moment and Emma wasn’t going to argue.

They were both cautious, moving slightly slower than they would have if there hadn’t been a concussion protocol earlier that night, but Killian’s tongue brushed over her lower lip and Emma’s fingers held onto the front of his jacket and she felt like she was breathing again.

She must have sighed or made some kind of ridiculous noise, because she could feel Killian’s smile when he moved to the curve of her jaw and the side of her neck. He groaned when she shifted over him, legs on either side of his hips and his fingers trailed across her waist, bunching up the bottom of her jersey.

Hs jersey.

“That’s the plan, Swan,” he whispered and it felt big and important and something about as long as we both shall live.

“Good. But the next time you get hurt, I better be there because I can’t deal with this string of information through a Ruby and, or Ariel filter. I thought I was going to go crazy. Or break my phone.”  
  
Killian laughed softly, pressing another kiss to the curve of her shoulder and her ring was back outside her jersey. “That seems fair, love. C’mon, I’m exhausted.”

The phone call came a few days later – straight from the league with, probably, smiles on their faces and expectations sky-high and they were going to the Olympics.

Together.

And Emma didn’t bother asking Ruby for any information as soon as Killian crashed into the boards in PyeongChang, just sprinted out of the team suite and into the trainer’s room and he smiled when he saw her.

She told him she loved him in the car ride back to the hotel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back again, filling more prompts and writing a questionable number of words. This one came from @onceuponaprincessworld and I've been sitting on this for weeks, so I hope it was worth the wait! As always, you guys continue to amaze with your clicks, comments kudos and feelings about this stupid hockey team. 
> 
> I am always down to talk hockey and Blue Line and definitely still taking prompts on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	3. Scoring on the Wraparound

“Call him.”  
  
“I texted him before.”  
  
“Call him.”  
  
“I have no idea what time it is at home. And then I’ve got to figure out the time difference for Colorado and--”  
  
“--Call him.”  
  
Killian sighed, closing his eyes lightly and he could still, somehow, feel Emma’s stare on the side of her head. He leaned back, bumping into the wall they were both resting against and it probably wasn’t a good sign that the brand-new, only slightly used hockey arena seemed to creak when Emma shifted next to him, a hand on his thigh and her cheek pressed against his shoulder and he was, at least, ninety-six percent positive she was smiling.

“It’s weird that you haven’t, you know that, right?” Emma asked softly, the words barely audible over the growing sounds in the arena and Roland’s not-so-quiet instructions to Humbert about the best way to sing the anthem. “Is there...is there a reason you haven’t?”  
  
That got him to open his eyes.

“No,” Killian said intently. Emma hummed, a possible agreement that sounded just a little cautious and that wasn’t right at all. “Of course not, Swan. We’ve admittedly been a little busy. Sleeping. And not sleeping.”  
  
She flushed slightly and he’d probably spend a questionable amount of time thinking about that, tugging her lips behind her teeth when her eyes flitted towards the ring on her left hand.

“Ah, that’s cheating,” Emma mumbled. “You can’t make sweeping allusions when there’s a painfully adorable kid a couple feet away.”  
  
“He’s distracted.”  
  
“Killian.”  
  
“Still here.”  
  
Emma rolled her eyes, but her tongue darted between her lips and he was winning whatever flirting battle they were staging. That probably wasn’t the right word to use when he kept trying to make sure his hand trained on her stomach, palm flat against the fabric of whatever she was wearing – or, more often than not in the last twelve hours, not wearing – and he was having a difficult time coming up with the words.

That might have been his problem.

He wasn’t really avoiding it.

Not really.

Well, maybe.

And it didn’t make sense.

But there was _something_ and maybe Killian was kind of nervous – terrified, more like, but that wasn’t really the right word either a few days removed from winning a goddamn gold medal and getting engaged and making out with his fiancée on the ice because they were going to have a kid.

_A kid_.

And he hadn’t told his brother.

Technically.

“You’re being difficult on purpose,” Emma accused, rapping her fingers on the back of his palm. “And you’ve got some kind of obsession, here.”

She smiled as she said it, the teasing note in her voice making it obvious that it wasn’t any kind of issue, but Killian felt his own flush rise in his cheeks and he was so goddamn happy he was certain he was going to explode.

Or something less drastic.

He really wanted to go home. And maybe go to the doctor. And tell his brother. Officially.

“I know, Swan,” Killian mumbled, dropping his head to kiss against the curve of her shoulder. She eyed him meaningfully, jerking her head towards Roland, like he could even bring himself to care what was happening in the far corner of the room.

He was still singing, the gold medal around his neck bouncing off his chest every time he added whatever dance routine he’d choreographed and Humbert looked passably amused – and only slightly irritated, the thin line of his mouth twisting slightly whenever Roland’s voice picked up.

“It’s stupid attractive,” Emma added.

“What is?”  
  
“Your brand-new touching...thing.”  
  
“You’ve got to call it something else, love. That sounds menacing.”  
  
“Ask me to expand my vocabulary when I’ve gotten some more sleep and am not constantly worried about what brand-new horrors the Rangers website is going to provide me today.”  
  
Killian chuckled lightly, goosebumps on Emma’s skin when the air brushed over her neck. “Three days, Swan. Of absolutely, positively not getting out of bed.”  
  
“You know, that sounds kind of menacing too,” she pointed out, twisting slightly and absolutely ignoring whatever sound of protest Killian made at the move. “Seriously, I’m going to punch you in the face. The kid does not mean my abdominal muscles disappeared. That’s just not how the human body works.”  
  
Killian quirked an eyebrow, but it was mostly so she didn’t notice the way his heart almost beat out of his chest at the casual use of the word _kid_ and it absolutely didn’t worked. She smiled, though, and that was kind of the point.

“Everyone knows,” Emma muttered, tugging lightly on the front of his shirt. “It’s not like they don’t. El and Anna have been texting about themes for a nursery for the last twenty-four hours. They’re like...real invested. And Reese’s already thinks we should consider some kind of spinach puff appetizer.”  
  
“That sounds disgusting.”  
  
“I know! That’s what I told her, but she’s thrilled and planning and, you know, if it means we get to have some kind of cake-tasting event like she did, then maybe I’m down to plan a wedding.”

The world exploded.

It felt like, at least – the rushing in his ears and the force of Emma’s smile and whatever light they were using in that media room seemed to make the stone in her ring sparkle at some kind of cosmic level.

He wasn’t sure that even made sense.

“We’ll make sure we get some kind of cake-tasting event, Swan,” Killian promised and he didn’t argue her movement when she leaned forward to brush her lips over hers. “More options than Mary Margaret.”  
  
“You are a giant, competitive weirdo.”  
  
“Who won a gold medal. And you agreed to marry. So, you know…”  
  
He could feel her smile against his mouth, not even bothering to pull away and he had to count to ten in his head so he didn’t actually groan when Emma’s fingers carded through his hair. Humbert probably wouldn’t have appreciated that either.

And Killian really didn’t want Regina to yell at him for scaring Roland.

“Yeah, I know,” Emma muttered. “How come you didn’t call Liam yet? Is this...I mean you can’t stop touching me, so at the risk of sounding like an absurdly over-confident ass I think it’s pretty safe to say you’re not upset.”  
  
“Swan,” he sighed, resting his forehead against hers and his hand felt like it had a magnet in it at that point. “That’s not even remotely what it is.”  
  
“Why then?”  
  
He couldn’t really shrug, but he made a noise in the back of his throat and that might have just been a whine when Emma’s fingers moved out of his hair. She tapped lightly on his jaw, Humbert’s quiet _we going to do this_ coming at, quite possibly, the worst time.

“I don’t know,” Killian said, but open book absolutely worked both ways and Emma didn’t even have to move away from him for him to feel the force of her skeptical stare. She tapped a bit harder. “Because he’s...he’s Liam and he’s, you know…”  
  
“I promise I do not.”  
  
Killian licked his lips, scowling slightly and the admission felt like it scratched its way out of him. “Because he’s Liam,” he repeated. “And he’s...well he’s always figured everything out and everything I’ve done has been to--”  
  
“--Impress him?” Emma interrupted. “Because I really do think the hat trick in the gold medal game might do that.”  
  
“Nah, not like that. It doesn’t have anything to do with hockey, actually.”  
  
Emma’s eyebrows leapt up her forehead, flying into her hair when she pulled back to gape at him and her hand fell on top of his. “Do you think Liam is, what...judging your life decisions? I mean I know we didn’t really plan this and we’re kind of going out of order, at least the way society dictates the order should go, but that’s kind of antiquated and society can honestly go fuck itself and…”

He cut her off, ducking his head and pressing his lips against hers and the sound she made – some kind of gasp, groan _thing_ that sent a shock down his spine – probably scared Roland and Humbert and every single human being in the entire arena.

Killian sighed against her and he hadn’t really been holding any tension, even with the distinct lack of sleep, but kissing Emma was like coming home or landing or something equally absurd and sentimental and maybe he had been avoiding his brother.

“I love you,” he muttered, her eyelashes still fluttering and chest moving a hint quicker than normal. “An absolutely absurd amount.”  
  
“I feel like the whole marriage and family thing was a pretty good sign, honestly,” Emma laughed. “You going to tell me the truth now or you want to keep making out?”  
  
“Is that an honest question?”  
  
“No.”  
  
He grinned, trying to run his hand through his hair. It didn’t matter. She’d absolutely destroyed it. “Liam’s always been this kind of...I don’t know,” Killian explained and he had to take a deep breath before the words rushed out of him. “He’s kind of my hero.”  
  
Emma blinked.

And blinked again.

And he really didn’t expect her to laugh.

“You’re kind of ruining that previously discussed confidence, Swan,” Killian said and her laugh got louder. Humbert muttered another string of words and possibly mentioned _schedule_ four times. “Jeez, Humbert, relax.”

Emma was still laughing, the sound inching closer to just a bit unhinged and Killian had read a few websites when he wasn’t entirely preoccupied with undressing his fiancée, but none of the lists he’d looked at mentioned _manic hysteria_ as an actual symptom of the first trimester.

“Swan,” he said cautiously, inching back in her gaze and there were tears in her eyes. “Are you alright, love?”  
  
“Was that supposed to be a surprise?” Emma asked. “Oh my God, I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out before. That’s a credit to you and your makeout skills, you know. I was way too distracted.”  
  
“What is happening right now?”  
  
“Alright, I want you to listen to me right now and, like, file it away in the deepest, darkest corners of your mind and then I don’t want this to be a question ever again, got it?” Killian nodded slowly, not entirely sure what he was agreeing to, but Emma was still smiling and the last two weeks had been some kind of dream, so maybe it all made sense.

“I love you,” she continued, tugging on his shirt. “More than anything and I am…God, I’m happy and excited and terrified and you are going to be so good at this. We’re going to be so good at this. So, yeah, I’m kind of freaking out, but I’m also ready for it and you get to call your brother and brag to brother and be confident that you are the absolute best guy I know. Bar none.”

Humbert stopped talking about the schedule.

Roland stopped singing.

And Killian wasn’t sure he was still breathing.

If he was dreaming, he didn’t want to wake up.

“You want to get married, Swan?”

She laughed again, loud enough that it sounded like the noise actually bubbled out of her and it might have been pure joy and possibly bouncing off the walls or echoing in his head and none of it mattered as long as it kept happening.

Emma nodded, the tears finally falling on her cheeks and she bit her lip when he brushed his thumb over her cheek. “Yeah,” she breathed. “Every single time.”

Killian kissed her, quick and maybe just a hint bruising, tongue tracing over her mouth until she sagged just a bit against him and they were absolutely fucking up the entire schedule. And probably Merida’s ability to sleep for, possibly, the rest of her life.

“I’m going to go call Liam,” he said and Emma rolled her eyes.

“About time.”

It took a few minutes to find a quiet corner and then a few more minutes to decide if he was going to actually FaceTime the phone call, but that debate was more one-sided than Kilian expected and it took two rings before Liam’s face showed up on his phone screen.

“You know,” Liam drawled, barely giving Killian a chance to breathe, let alone give any kind of socially acceptable greeting. “I was starting to think you forget I was here.”  
  
Killian winced, squeezing one eye shut and stuffing his hand into the back of his hair. “Ah, that’s not fair,” he muttered. “It’s been...you know, busy.”  
  
Liam hummed, the hint of a smile curling on the ends of his mouth and it was probably stupid to have been worried. And that wasn’t quite the right word either.

Killian wasn’t worried.

He knew Liam would be happy and excited and the prospect of battling both Locksley and Scarlet for Matthew Jones’ favorite uncle would be some kind of _thrill of a lifetime_ thing, but the words were still sitting in the back of Killian’s throat and he just wanted his brother to be proud of...everything.

That sounded lame in his head. He could only imagine what it would sound like out loud.

“Busy here meaning life-changing?” Liam asked and the smile was a smirk and vaguely sarcastic and Killian felt like he was fourteen years old.

That was kind of weird – all things considered.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “But in a good way, you know?”  
  
“You keep using that phrase. Why are you asking me for confirmation?”  
  
Killian shrugged, ducking his eyes to his feet when he slid down the latest wall he was leaning again. Liam did something ridiculous with his eyebrows, a somehow judgmental arch that wasn’t really helping the pace of the conversation and Killian dimly wondered if that was genetic.

It was probably on some website somewhere.

“You’ve got to actually use words at some point, little brother,” Liam chuckled. “We can’t just converse in grunts. And the ring looked good, by the way.”  
  
Killian made some kind of noise – probably something that would, generally, be classified as a grunt of surprise and Liam nearly dropped his phone when he started laughing. “Here’s a tip, when important people in your life tell one half of the relationship that you’re a part of something important, assume you will also get that news in some kind of timely fashion.”  
  
“Did those words make sense in that order?”  
  
“Elsa told me. Or showed me. And then showed me the group text. She and Anna think you’re going to to choose some kind of sports theme and that’s incredibly cliché.”  
  
“Some kind of family tradition,” Killian said, the words falling out of him before he really considered it and Liam’s eyebrows were going to get sprained if he kept moving them that way.

“You tell Mr. V you’re going to name a kid after him yet?”  
  
“Jeez, El’s just shouting things from metaphorical rooftops, huh?”

“Anna.”  
  
“Ah.”  
  
Liam chuckled, slouching into the corner of the couch and the twins were shouting off camera, the sound of pucks hitting something echoing from the other side of the world. And Lizzie started crying at some point, Elsa’s quiet entreaties to _go back to sleep_ barely audible over the sound and it was all vaguely chaotic and kind of nice and Killian’s heart did something impossible again.

Exploded or something.

“We didn’t tell ‘em yet,” Killian said, belatedly answering the question. “Figured that was kind of an in-person thing.”  
  
“Ah, so I’m not the last person to find out then, huh?” Liam asked. “I actually feel better about that. And, technically, I guess I knew before anyone else did with vaguely worded texts that sent Elsa into some kind of emotional tailspin.”  
  
“Again, I was kind of busy. And trying to propose.”  
  
“Not on the ice.”  
  
“I was never going to propose on the ice,” Killian laughed, fingers still tugging on his hair and they were still dancing around announcements and life-changing news. “I wasn’t trying to avoid you,” he added softly. He might beat up Liam’s eyebrows at some point. “We weren’t going to say anything because all those sites say you shouldn’t and--”  
  
“--Killian,” Liam cut in and Elsa’s voice had, suddenly, disappeared. She was probably frozen somewhere. “Are you reading websites? About...kids?”

His jaw ached from clenching it so tightly, whatever noise he made in response some kind of impossible thing that seemed to pull from the pit of his stomach. But then he remembered Emma’s face and her hand on his and, well, he was goddamn thrilled about _everything_.

“Yeah,” Killian nodded. Elsa might have shrieked. Lizzie started crying again. “I mean not a ton because I’ve got to be connected to wifi or I’m going to get totally fucked by my phone plan, but some stuff and ideas and..”

He took another deep breath and his lungs were going to explode with his heart and Liam’s smile had never been that wide.

Ever.

“Emma’s pregnant,” he finished, his own smile making the muscles in his face stretch and twist and the world seemed to pause for a moment when Liam actually dropped his phone.

That appeared to be catching.

“Holy shit,” Liam muttered, shaking his head in something that might have been awe and possibly disbelief and Killian was glad he was sitting down. “That’s...holy shit.”  
  
“Eloquent.”

“Shit,” he repeated, Elsa clicking her tongue from _somewhere_ when his vocabulary dissolved into one curse word that the twins would probably spend the next week repeating. “I mean...I knew or kind of knew, but that’s…”

Liam shook his head again and maybe they should all get a media training rehash from Ruby. None of them were very good at holding a conversation. “Is it weird to tell you congratulations? People told us congratulations and I thought that was weird, but I can’t come up with another word, so, uh...congratulations.”

“I’ll take it,” Killian grinned. “It is kind of weird though, but I accept it.”  
  
“When I come up with another word to scream from those metaphorical rooftops you were talking about before I’ll get back to you.”  
  
“That’s fair.”  
  
Liam laughed again, a bit quiet and slightly stunned and Killian hoped all the internal organs that felt as if they were twisting into several dozen knots at the moment recovered by the time he had to play actual hockey games again.

“So, uh, it’s been a pretty good Olympics for you huh?” Liam asked. Killian dropped his phone. They were all absolute disasters.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Kind of the best. I’m uh...I really wasn’t avoiding you, but El and Banana kind of attack-called and Scarlet can’t keep a secret and I just wanted you to…”  
  
He needed to finish a goddamn sentence

He couldn’t.

Words were, apparently, more challenging than an overtime gold medal game or impending fatherhood or proposing as many times as one person could propose in a several day-span.

He’d asked Emma to marry him sixteen times.

At last count.

And Liam absolutely knew how that sentence was going to end.

It was, admittedly, kind of obvious.

“That’s stupid,” Liam said pointedly, waving a hand over his shoulder when Elsa shouted something that sounded a hell of a lot _it’s definitely stupid, KJ_. “See, I’ve got back-up. I win.”  
  
“Were we arguing?”  
  
“No, but I still win because that’s definitely the stupidest thing you’ve ever thought. Were you honestly worried that I’m not incredibly proud of you at all times?”

Killian made some kind of impossible noise, probably doing permanent damage to his throat in the process, and Liam widened his eyes in disbelief. “C’mon, little brother, that’s ridiculous,” he said. “You’ve done something good here and not just because that kid is going to have the greatest hockey genes in the history of the world. You are...well you can self-loathe with the best of ‘em, can’t you?”

Elsa laughed in the background, another quiet agreement and side commentary and Killian resisted the urge to make a quip about play by play. He shrugged instead.

Liam rolled his eyes.

“I’m going to take that as an agreement,” he chuckled. “It’s unnecessary. It always was really, but you’re also the single most stubborn person on the planet, so that was falling on deaf ears. That’s got to change now, Killian. Because you’re going to be that kid’s hero and you should be. He couldn’t pick a better one.”

Elsa might have been crying.

“That might have been the single greatest motivational speech you’ve ever given,” Killian mumbled, blinking quickly and threatening to rip out his own hair.

“That was off the cuff too. Feel free to tell your kid about that when he understands the English language. And take solace in the fact that the twin thing is a Vankald trait because I trust you little brother, but I’m not sure you could cope with twins.”  
  
“Younger brother. God.”  
  
“I take such joy in that little pinch between your eyebrows though.”

Killian groaned, rolling his entire head in response. “Although you’re probably right about twins. Right about the hockey genes though.”  
  
“I’m already ready for the national title run in...what year?”  
  
“2036.”  
  
Liam let out a low whistle and Elsa probably should have moved to the couch if she was going to comment on every single part of the conversation. “Was that also on the websites you’re reading?” Liam asked.

“Scarlet did the math.”  
  
“Scarlet can do math?”  
  
“Ask him that question next time you talk to him.”  
  
“Ah, no thanks, he couldn’t really hit anybody for the last two and half weeks. I don’t want to be on the receiving end of all that pent up aggression.”

“Good call.”  
  
Liam hummed in agreement, a kid suddenly in his lap and wearing a Team USA jersey and the world had a messed up sense of humor. “You learn some things over the years,” he grinned. “You nervous? Honestly?”  
  
Killian considered his answer for a moment, tucked into that quiet corner and he wasn’t entirely certain how he was going to get back to the media room. “Grand scheme,” he mumbled and Liam’s eyes widened slightly. “Not at all. Questionably not at all.”  
  
“How does those words go together?”  
  
“I have no idea, actually,” Killian admitted lightly. “But I’m not. I’m...good. Great. Better than great. It’s kind of the little things. Do they have monkey bars in schools anymore?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Monkey bars. You know, like you swing and fall off and break your wrist or something.”  
  
“That is oddly specific.”  
  
“I’m worried about monkey bars and their existence and potential for asshole kids to do something vaguely terrible.”  
  
Liam gaped at him, blinking quickly like Killian would disappear and show that he’d been replaced with some kind alien obsessed with playground equipment. He didn’t. Because he was questionably worried about monkey bars.

And it only took Liam four and a half seconds to realize that monkey bars were both a metaphor.

“You learn some things, Killian,” he said again, shifting the kid perched on his leg and wincing when a knee collided with his stomach. “And you realize you can’t control everything and that’s good for everyone involved. It’s not the blue line. There’s no straight path from the point. It’s a five on three penalty kill and everything’s coming at you from every single angle and it lasts like...the rest of your life.”  
  
“You’re really selling it.”  
  
“Yeah, well, you’re kind of committed now. But, honestly, it’s chaotic and exhausting and your thighs will probably feel like you’ve been on the PK for twenty-six straight minutes at some point because you won’t get any sleep and that kid may have great hockey genes, but all babies hate squash and he’ll throw it at your face.

But here’s the sell. You are so goddamn happy you reek with it from the other side of the world. And so is Emma. I think Anna printed out that picture of you two on the ice to use as, like, blackmail for the rest of your lives. So you get to keep doing that and you get to keep building something and settling into something else and life keeps happening and it’s absolutely...” he paused to cover his hands over Charlie’s ears, pulling him against his chest, like that would help. “It’s absolutely fucking fantastic and you’re going to be the best dad that kid could ask for.”

Killian exhaled for what felt like the first time in his life, a rush of air and feelings and Elsa was close to sobbing somewhere in that house. “Stepped up your motivational speech game over the last couple of years,” he muttered, a shaky laugh clinging to the words. “Someone should have been recording that.”  
  
“I’m not convinced Elsa wasn’t.”  
  
“Double negatives kind of taking away from the whole thing honestly.”  
  
“Ah, hit the post.”  
  
“Too many hockey metaphors,” Killian said and Liam nodded in agreement, lower lip jutted out slightly. “If I tell you that I just wanted you to be proud of me are you going to tell Locksley and Scarlet because I don’t think I could handle that.”

Liam didn’t answer at first and that was only kind of jarring, but then he blinked again and his eyes were a little glossy and Killian was holding his breath.

Elsa sniffled.

“No,” Liam whispered. “I wouldn’t. I would tell you that I have been since the very start and every single day since. No matter what you think you’ve done.”  
  
“God, you’re on a roll.”  
  
“That’s because I’m presumably getting more sleep than you are. Neurons firing on all cylinders and whatnot.”

“Yeah, that makes total sense.”  
  
“I am absolutely ready to beat down against both Locksley and Scarlet and David, if need be, because I’m that kid’s only actual uncle and I’d like whatever record to note that.”

“The record appreciates that,” Killian said, finally letting his hand fall out of his hair and that felt like a bigger moment than it probably should have. “Maybe he can be a centerman or something. Keep the tradition alive.”  
  
Liam dropped the phone again.

And he nearly lost track of time, talking and planning and Elsa really did have far too many ideas about the potential decorating scheme of a potential nursery and they’d moved into a two-bedroom apartment.

Killian found his way back to the media room, Humbert glancing his direction when his shoes squeaked on the floor and Roland was never going to stop humming the national anthem.

“Let me know when you land, ok?” Humbert asked, leaning forward to brush a kiss over Emma’s forehead and she was still smiling.

“Of course,” she said.

Humbert nodded towards Killian when he walked out, leaving them alone with an incredibly excited eight-year-old and the sounds of a computer doing something and Killian’s hand did that magnet thing again, brushing over Emma’s stomach as soon as she was within reach.

“You ready to go, love?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Emma nodded, closing her eyes lightly like she was trying to memorize the moment. “Let’s go home.”

 

* * *

“Call him.”  
  
"You’re supposed to be asleep.”

Emma sighed, shifting against his side and there was not enough room for that. The bed creaked and they both snapped towards the bassinet, container _thing_ and there had to be an actual word for it, but Killian was far too worried about waking up his hours-old son to be concerned about proper sentence structure.

They had a son.

“I’m not asleep,” Emma muttered, tugging on the team-branded t-shirt he’d changed into at some point and everything felt sluggish and far too fast at the same time. He’d tried not to fall asleep, like he’d miss something or some momentous moment if he even dared close his eyes, but Emma was so goddamn soft against him, breathing evening out and Matthew David Jones was still asleep.

Parents of the year.

Already.

“And I’m not going to fall asleep because our sleep schedules are all already out of whack and this bed is, like, a rock,” Emma continued. “So we should probably call them and tell them that there’s a painfully adorable kid here.”  
  
“You want me to use that exact phrase, love?” Killian asked, quirking an eyebrow and she didn’t roll her eyes. Her lips twitched slightly and that was kind of a victory and the world was incredibly perfect.

Or something less sentimental.

No, something more sentimental. The most sentimental.

Killian leaned to his left, grabbing his phone off the nightstand and it didn’t even take a single ring, Liam’s eyes wide and he might have been vibrating with excitement, the phone screen shaking on his side of the call.  

Emma laughed.

“Why are you awake?” Killian asked. “Is there an earthquake happening there?”  
  
Liam leveled him with a stare that probably should have been patented. “Killian, you called me and I’m experiencing some weird déjà vu because I feel like we did this with the ring call and also because I’ve been waiting for you to call me for, like, nine hours. Also I have kids. Kids who have to go to school.”  
  
“Oh, yeah, that’s a thing isn’t it?” Emma mused, Liam’s eyes darting towards the sound like he’d be able to see her out the side of the phone. “We’ve got to decide where to send him to school, don’t we?”

“I mean not right now, Swan,” Killian reasoned. “He’s real busy sleeping.”  
  
“Wait, what?” Liam gasped, shouting the question and jumping up and down and Elsa yelled from somewhere.

She ran into the frame, colliding with Liam’s side and the hospital bed probably couldn't stand up to the combined force of both Killian and Emma’s laughter. “KJ,” Elsa breathed. “Can we...can we see him?”

It took far longer than it probably should have to climb off the bed, but Killian was far more aware of noise than he’d ever been in his life and his knuckles turned white when he gripped the phone, directing the phone camera towards a still-sleeping Matthew David Jones.

“Oh,” Elsa sighed, a hand flying to her mouth and Liam absolutely was not breathing, a statue who seemed determined to lick his lips, at least, forty-two times in a ten-second span. “Oh my God. He’s perfect.”  
  
“Totally perfect,” Emma agreed softly, smiling at Killian when he glanced over his shoulder.

Liam nodded, slinging an arm around Elsa’s shoulders and they were definitely both crying. Killian couldn’t bring himself to say anything.

He might have been crying too.

“Did Mom and Dad show yet?” Elsa asked, eyes still on Matt.

Killian shook his head. “Tomorrow. Or later tonight. I don’t know, I’ve already lost all track of time outside of this hospital room.”  
  
“Ah, well, that’s understandable.”

“You guys good?” Liam asked. “Like...everything good? Healthy and all of that?”  
  
“Yeah,” Killian said. “All of the above. I think Scarlet’s already measuring him for his first jersey fitting.”  
  
Elsa clicked her tongue, closing her eyes tightly and Killian didn’t remember deciding to sit down, just that his knees bent and Emma’s fingers brushed over the side of his arm. He had to twist to hold her hand.

He didn’t really mind.

“It was totally Liam’s idea,” Elsa continued, shouting from out of frame again and thrusting her hands towards the camera when she collapsed back down.

And, really, he shouldn’t have been surprised.

Because of course they’d bought it.

They’d bought _his_ first jersey.

He hadn’t been playing long yet, he and Liam had only just started practices and it was almost his ninth birthday and they’d pooled their money – for a second-hand Rangers jersey that was far too big and far too ratty and there was a rip in the right sleeve.

The new one was better.

It was a Rangers jersey and far too big and the number twenty on the back went without saying, but the name was slightly unexpected, the _MATTHEW_ emblazoned on it making Killian’s breath hitch and Emma’s hand tighten and it was some kind of miracle he didn’t drop the phone.

“It’ll probably take some time for him to grow into it,” Liam started. “You know, being an actual newborn at this point, but, uh, I figured he could wear it eventually and it’d intimidate the monkey bars or something.”

Emma’s hand tightened again, an impossible show of strength that left Killian wincing and tugging her fingers up to brush his lips just underneath her ring. “Monkey bars,” she echoed, tears on her cheeks and voice slightly shaky and there had to be a word bigger than sentimental. “Thanks, guys. Just...thank you.”

Elsa nodded, the force of her smile possibly affecting the atmosphere or the rotation of the Earth, and Liam didn’t look away from Killian.

“Congratulations, Dad,” he said and the words settled in the pit of Killian’s stomach and the back corner of his mind and he and Emma were asleep again by the time the Vankalds showed up later that afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that kind of spiraled. I was aiming for, like, two thousand and then five thousand words happened and apparently I've got some real Jones brothers feelz I need to put onto the internet. This came from an anon on Tumblr who also wanted telling the Vankalds and that'll happen eventually too. 
> 
> Keep flailing at me on Tumblr please, it's the best: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	4. Pillow-Based Bankruptcy

“Cap, sit down, you’re freaking me out.”

Killian didn’t sit down. Or stop moving, pacing out a not-quite straight line in the locker room, weaving his way between bags of equipment and sticks and more helmets and gloves than should probably be on the floor, but they weren’t in New York and Kristoff was somewhere else and it appeared none of them were capable of putting things where they belonged when they’d just clinched the Metro.

For the first time in something like twenty years if the ridiculous number of stories and headlines were to be believed.

He was trying to ignore all of those.

Mostly because there were so many goddamn rumors and reports and that clip of Emma running onto the ice in South Korea seemed to play on a loop on various local sports wrap-up shows, at least, once a week.

“You’re going to trip over something, fall, break your face and then that’s just going to be awful for everyone,” Ariel continued, tapping the toe of her shoe impatiently when she leaned up against a locker that was practically overflowing with equipment.

Killian stopped pacing – nearly tripping over a stick and Ariel didn’t actually say anything, just lifted both her eyebrows, which was, somehow, worse than a string of insults. “Can someone actually break their face?” he asked, tilting his head and tugging on the end of the tie that was barely knotted.

It clearly wasn’t the question Ariel expected and, for half a moment, that was enough to make Killian forget that their flight out of Carolina wasn’t for another two hours and he really should have been sitting at a table doing post, but he was waiting for his phone to ring and patience had never really been one of his strong suits.

“I mean obviously,” Ariel snapped, rolling her eyes for extra emphasis and Killian nearly smiled. His phone was very silent. “You have bones in your face, Cap, all of which can break if you trip over your own shoes.”  
  
“I thought I was tripping over equipment,” Killian corrected. He hadn’t started pacing again. That seemed like a step in the right direction. Or, well, the opposite of that completely. “Just tripping over my own feet seems kind of lame, Red.”   
  
“Decidedly lame, but that’s kind of your game now, isn’t it?”   
  
“Rude.”   
  
“You are a giant, human ball of worry and anxiety and you need to take at least two-hundred deep breaths before any of us even think about getting on a plane.”

“Why two hundred?”  
  
Ariel blinked and it was like a red-headed fire monster had taken her place or something equally terrifying and Killian couldn’t actually back up because there was equipment everywhere and a locker behind him and just falling _into_ the empty space behind him was, probably, the lamest thing he could do.

She exhaled loudly – and maybe she wasn’t just a fire monster, maybe she was a dragon and he’d lost complete control of the metaphor, but Killian slept like garbage on the road now, worse than he had last season and Locksley was absolutely going to kill him if they both didn’t fall asleep as soon as they sat down on the team plane.

“I’m just saying,” Killian continued, well aware that he was taking his life into his hands, particularly with a dragon-monster-Ariel hybrid who, he only just realized, was holding a plastic bag with a Hurricanes logo in one hand. “Two hundred seems like a kind of random number and I’m just wondering if there’s some sort of medical basis for it.”  
  
“You are, easily the most frustrating person alive, you know that?”   
  
Killian nodded. “You should talk to Locksley, I’m sure you guys could come up with some kind of team slogan for your brand-new group.”   
  
“Don’t think Locksley has not been involved in this from the very beginning. It’s some kind of miracle he hasn’t actually just started beating you up during warmups.”   
  
“Is that more weird than you just landing on two-hundred breaths or…” Killian trailed off, snapping towards his phone when it started buzzing in his locker.

Ariel made some kind of impossible noise in the back of her throat when he practically lunged at the stupid thing – and one of his shoes had come untied at some point, he was a goddamn disaster – but he ignored her, waving one hand impatiently over his shoulder and that only served to work a few pointed curses out of her.

“It’s not Emma,” Ariel mumbled, dropping onto the bench in front of Scarlet’s locker and grabbing her own phone out of her back pocket, fingers flying across the screen. “Honestly, Cap, sit down this is going to take a couple of minutes and maybe, like, five different breathing exercises that I looked up during the third period.”

Killian narrowed his eyes, gaze flitting back down to his screen when the phone vibrated again and Ariel was right.

Of course.

“What is happening right now?” he asked, still staring at his phone and Ariel actually laughed. She was laying across the bench and there were voices coming back towards them and Killian practically growled when something crashed against his shoulder.

It was a t-shirt.

“You’re going to have to put that on eventually, Cap,” Will said, dropping down next to him with something that almost looked like an apologetic smile on his face. He shrugged, gaze flitting towards Ariel and whoever she was talking to – her phone held up with both hands above her. “Ah,” he muttered. “So, uh, that’s happening then, huh?”  
  
Killian hummed, shaking his head and trying to make sure he didn’t inadvertently strangle himself with his own tie while putting on league-mandated t-shirts for photo ops he wasn’t all that interested in. “Are we leaving or what?” he asked and Will just pressed his lips together tightly.

“No,” Robin answered, decked in head to toe championship gear and laden down with more t-shirts and two more hats and Killian got the distinct impression he was about to get grounded. “C’mon, Cap, you know the schedule.”  
  
“Yeah,” Killian said slowly. “So...what are we doing then?”   
  
“Breathing,” Ariel replied, twisting until she was looking at him, feet planted firmly on the ground and hair falling over every side of the bench and Killian didn’t even try to hold back his groan when he heard the voice on the phone she was holding.

Maybe he was getting grounded.

And his phone still hadn’t actually _rung_ , just vibrated a few quick messages that, upon actually reading them, were from Elsa and Anna and not Emma and Killian just really wanted to go home.

There was, however, that whole issue of a schedule and a team flight he was contractually obligated to be on and being some kind of _face of the league_ was exhausting when he had to play by the rules.

And, well, maybe he was kind of losing his mind.

That wasn’t really his fault. Really. It wasn’t.

He was just...happy. No, that was kind of lame too. God, Ariel was never going to let him live any of this down. He couldn't come up with another word though, couldn’t think of another string of letters or set of syllables that actually communicated everything he’d felt since South Korea and the last two months had been some kind of roller coaster that had a questionable amount of g-forces or however people measured things on roller coasters, but Killian couldn’t seem to get off and he didn’t really want to and, yeah...definitely lost his mind.

The morning sickness had worn off eventually and Emma was actually sleeping now – which is exactly what the website he definitely _did not_ have bookmarked on his phone promised would happen – and Matthew Jones was, apparently, the size of a peach and growing at some kind of questionable rate. The website claimed he was double the size he was last week.

Not that he was reading that website.

Constantly.

Like...several times a day.

That would be insane.

He checked several different websites several different times a day and he just wanted to _know_ and if he couldn’t be there, then Killian was going to be damned if he wasn’t some kind of font of information.

It might have been driving Locksley insane.

It was _absolutely_ driving Ariel insane.

It was probably driving Emma insane.

And it hit him like some kind of lightning bolt, which would have made more sense if they were in Tampa, but he couldn't really think of any hurricane puns on the spot and Killian knew his eyes widened when he realized what was going on.

They were staging an intervention. They’d just clinched the Metro and were the top seed heading into the playoffs, set for some kind of impossible second-straight Stanley Cup run and his friends were staging an intervention about his questionable father-like habits.

“Are you serious?” Killian demanded, not sure who he was directing the question to and it might have just been the _world_ at this point.

Ariel quirked an eyebrow, turning her phone screen towards him and Elsa sitting cross-legged on her couch in Colorado, Rangers gear on and a knowing look on her face that was absolutely cheating.

“Did we start the breathing exercises yet?” Elsa asked, glancing towards the corner of the screen like she could actually see Ariel.

Robin tried not to laugh. It didn’t work.

“Nah,” Ariel said. “Cap was too busy trying not kill himself in the ‘Canes visitors locker room.”  
  
Killian groaned, letting his head fall back and that was a mistake because the locker seemed intent on concussing him “I wasn’t actually going to kill myself,” he grumbled, crossing his arms and Robin nearly cackled at the sight of him.

“In through your nose, out through your mouth, Cap,” he grinned, kicking towards Killian’s shoes. Killian glared at him.

“Alright, alright, alright,” Ariel continued, waving one hand through the air and she hadn’t actually sat up yet. She wasn’t ever going to. “We need to focus because there really is a schedule and I don’t really feel like walking back home.”  
  
“We planned it, A,” Elsa reasoned and Killian was never going to take another deep breath, too busy sighing dramatically at whatever was happening in Carolina. “KJ, stop making so much noise, this is going to be easier if you keep getting consistent oxygen to your brain.”   
  
Killian blinked twice, doing as instructed, but mostly because his lungs were actually starting to burn from a distinct lack of air.

He pushed off the bench, crossing towards Ariel in three steps that probably weren’t good for the muscles in his thighs, grabbing the phone out of her hand and Elsa didn’t even look surprised to find him staring at her, just lifted her eyebrows and smiled at him, that same knowing look she’d had for the better part of the last two decades.

He sighed again.

“You’re going to give yourself a heart attack,” she said, nodding towards the tie that had only made it halfway underneath his t-shirt. “And you’ve got to stop buying pillows. You’re going to run out of space in your apartment.”  
  
“How do you know about that?” Killian gaped and Ariel scoffed under her breath. The plastic bag was on the ground. There was another pillow in it.

“KJ, c’mon, it’s like blatantly obvious. Also no one actually told me because A is kind of an enabler, but also, also, I have eyes and saw that bag two seconds ago. It didn’t even take a full breath to figure out what you were doing.”  
  
It started the first road trip after the Olympics.

And it wasn’t really a conscious decision, just an idea and a sentimental streak that seemed to grow several miles wider every time they got on a plane and became some sort of chasm when they had multiple games on the road.

The West Coast swings felt like week-long treks through several different mountains and, well, maybe it had turned into some kind of obsession.

God.

Elsa’s smile shifted slightly, softer and understanding and Killian wished he was still sitting on the bench because that bruise on his calf hurt like hell and his knees weren’t quite as strong and they were staging an _intervention_ for his pillow-buying spree.

_God_.

“Did the website say it?” Robin asked, legs stretched out in front of him and he was still trying not to laugh. It still wasn’t working. “Is that why you’re a one-man pillow freak now? Something about optimum comfort or whatever?”

“Nah, that’s just me,” Killian admitted. “There’s a mountain of pillows in our room. Red’s been buying them and sending them overnight.”  
  
Robin blinked, mouth hanging open slightly and, well, maybe it sounded insane when he said it out loud. “It made more sense in the moment,” Killian reasoned, ignoring Elsa’s quiet laugh on the phone. “Comfort or home or something.”   
  
“Wasn’t that expensive? Are pillows expensive?”   
  
“Have you never bought a pillow, Locksley?”

“You know, I don’t think I have,” Robin admitted, shrugging at the absurd direction this conversation had taken. “C’mon, ballpark it for me, how much do you think you’ve spent on pillows since we got back from the Olympics?”  
  
“Locksley,” Elsa sighed, but he just brushed her off and that was probably his first mistake. Killian rolled his eyes.

“I thought there was a schedule to this intervention,” Killian muttered, sitting back down and his phone vibrated again. It was Anna. She was...somewhere. He probably should know where she was. “El, where’s Banana right now?”  
  
“What?”   
  
“She keeps texting me.”   
  
Elsa groaned, a mix between another sigh and a growl that probably would have rivaled Ariel’s transition into fire monster earlier. “Are they just pictures? Because she probably shouldn't be sending them to you guys yet.”   
  
“I have no idea what you’re saying to me.”   
  
“How is she even getting those across international borders?” Locksley asked, twisting around Killian so he could get in frame. “There’s got to be rules about that, right? Security or whatever.”

“You are literally about to get on a charted plane, right now, Locksley,” Elsa said and Killian would have been able to pick up the note of exasperation in her voice from anywhere in the known solar system. Maybe he wasn’t the one who was going to get grounded. He should probably stop thinking he was going to get grounded.

“Yeah, but is Anna taking chartered planes everywhere?” he continued, ignoring Elsa’s eye roll when he kept asking questions and ignoring the conversation schedule she’d probably spent several minutes orchestrating. “That seems really expensive.”  
  
“Why are you harping on this money thing so much?” Ariel asked. She moved across the locker room, grabbing Killian’s free hand and that might have been the only think he’d actually been prepared for when he got off the ice. “Make a fist, Cap.”   
  
Robin rolled his eyes, but his shoulders sagged a bit and Elsa had twisted a blanket around her, muddled voices in the background that sounded like the twins practicing slapshots in the hallway. “Really, though, this was all your idea?” Robin asked, turning towards Killian. “Because that’s not what…”   
  
“Yeah,” Killian interrupted. “Well, I mean mostly me. The pillow thing is...a thing and they’re only like thirty bucks. That’s not including the shipping though, but I’m not really counting that.”

Ariel let out some kind of triumphant sound, punching the air with both of her hands and she didn’t have to be worried about Killian breaking his face, she was going to do it herself when she inadvertently hit him.

“Ah, I won,” she shouted, pointing at Robin like those words made sense. Elsa laughed in Colorado. “Locksley, I told you! I told you! This was just Cap. You owe me food pre-game the entire first series.”

“Are you betting on this?” Will asked and Killian didn’t entirely expect that kind of _emotion_ because, all things considered, he wasn’t really surprised by the bet. “What the hell is wrong with you guys?”   
  
Ariel made a face, Robin mumbling something about _high horses_ under his breath and Killian’s head hurt. “Wait, wait, wait,” he said, trying to tell Elsa to _shut up_ without actually saying it and he could hear Liam just out of frame in Colorado. “Scarlet why are you personally offended by this? You’re obsessed with betting about things.”   
  
Will had stood up at some point – they were all just going to break all of their bones before they even got out of the locker room and that’d probably make it difficult to win another Stanley Cup.

“Scarlet,” Killian pressed, catching him by the back of his championship t-shirt. It ripped. Liam cackled from the living room in Colorado. “What is happening right now?”  
  
“This wasn’t just your intervention,” Ariel mumbled, eyeing both of them meaningfully and the couch on the phone creaked when Liam dropped down next to Elsa.

“He’s almost as bad as you are, little brother,” Liam grinned, tapping on the phone screen like that would do anything except frustrate Elsa. “I mean, he’s not wasting a college fund on pillows, but it’s a close third.”  
  
“Wait, what?” Killian balked and Ariel had moved out of _fire breathing monster mode_ and into vaguely comforting, resting a hand on his shoulder and nodding in understanding. He had no idea what was going on.

And he’d really spent just a ridiculous amount of money on pillows. And shipping. Mostly the shipping.

“I mean, second is definitely Anna,” Robin shrugged. Scarlet ran a hand over his face, sighing with what sounded like the weight of several different worlds. “That’s what I was getting at before. She’s knitting.”  
  
“What?”   
  
“Knitting,” Will repeated, rolling his eyes. “And Locksley’s a goddamn idiot because he’s clearly never heard of plastic.”   
  
Robin nodded slowly, a quiet _ohhhh_ on his lips and Liam was close to falling off his own couch, head thrown back and what might have been actual tears on his cheeks. “Hold on,” Killian muttered, standing again and wincing when it felt like his entire body protested at the movement. Ariel almost looked concerned. “Banana is knitting? Knitting what, exactly? And where?”   
  
“She definitely told you, KJ,” Elsa said. “She’s been in Panama for, like, a week and a half already.”   
  
“I have been kind of preoccupied, El. There’s a season going on.”   
  
“Yeah, I don’t think you’ve actually been worried about the season for weeks.”

Point to her. Several points to her. All the goddamn points to her.

Killian sighed. “Alright, so she’s in Panama with...what plastic needs?” Elsa nodded. “And she’s...knitting? When did Banana learn how to knit?”  
  
“I was eleven so that’d make Anna nine. It was right after you guys started going to the Piers and Mom thought we should have a thing and don’t even get me started about how she was trying to counteract hockey with knitting, but she knew how to do it and thought maybe we’d like to learn or something.”   
  
“You know how to knit, El?”

Elsa actually laughed. So did Liam. Loudly. It was almost enough to drown out the sound of pucks hitting the wall. “No,” Elsa shook her head. “I am comically bad it, but Anna’s actually not. She’s secretly really good at it and I didn’t realize she’d started doing it again until a couple days ago. If you think you’ve been spending an absurd amount of money on shipping, you’ve got nothing on her, KJ.”

“What?”  
  
“You’ve got to say something else, Cap,” Will mumbled, back on the bench and tugging on the end of his shirt. “And I resent the implication that I’m even in the same discussion as you and Anna. I’ve barely done anything.”

Killian tilted his head. “What could you possibly be doing?”  
  
“He keeps sending Emma food,” Robin muttered. “Teamed up with Merida.”   
  
Will actually looked like he was blushing, lips pulled back tightly behind his teeth and eyes boring into the floor and Killian wasn’t sure what to say. He still had no idea what Anna was sending from Panama. “It’s not a big deal, Cap,” Will mumbled, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck. “It’s just...you know, stuff.”   
  
“Stuff,” Killian echoed and Scarlet shrugged.

“Yeah, you know, power bars and just like a shit ton of Powerade.”  
  
“She keeps drinking that gross yellow flavor.”   
  
Will hummed. “That’s what Mer said. It’s not...this is not some kind of power move to steal your thunder here, Cap, you realize that, right?”   
  
“I realize that,” Killian nodded. “Did Mer tell you or did you actively seek out this information?”

“She couldn’t find that gross yellow flavor at any of the Duane Reades, CVS's or Walgreens within a ten block radius of the Garden like...what was it, a month ago Locksley?” Robin nodded and Killian was momentarily stunned by his ability to just _miss_ things, but he was probably buying pillows or something when all of that happened. “So, uh….I made some calls.”   
  
“You made some calls?”   
  
“Cap, if you don’t stop just repeating Scarlet, I’m going to check you,” Ariel warned and Elsa made a contradictory noise in the back of her throat. “Oh my God,” Ariel muttered. “This is deviating from the schedule, Scarlet. We’re just supposed to get Cap to relax before he gets on the plane.”   
  
“Yeah, well, I didn’t realize that Anna and I were also being included in this intervention,” Will argued. “Let me explain my side of the story, A.” Ariel rolled her eyes again, but even Elsa seemed willing to let this one part of the schedule slide. “Anyway,” Will continued. “Mer said she couldn’t find anything and so Belle helped me find some phone number for the general supplier in the northeast.”

“The entire northeast?” Liam shouted, twisting in front of Elsa to stare speculatively at Will. He shrugged again. “Seriously, Scarlet?”  
  
“I mean Belle helped and it took, like, ten seconds to get through. You know the stock manager of Powerade northeast is a Rangers fan?”   
  
“I did not,” Killian admitted.

Will grinned at him, seemingly picking up confidence in the story once he realized Killian wasn’t going to challenge him to a fist fight in the Hurricanes visitor locker room. “Oh yeah, big time. You’d be surprised what a few well-placed ticket offers and photo ops for Mr. Hayes’ kid will do for your Powerade delivery.”  
  
Killian was frozen. He wasn’t sure he was breathing, just exhaling dramatically and Ariel might have actually started to cry at some point, seemingly surprised by just how dedicated Will Scarlet was to the _protect Matt Jones at all costs_ cause.

Even Robin and Liam looked impressed.

Elsa didn’t look surprised. Of course not.

“So,” Will continued, the flush still rising in his cheeks and they must have been cutting it close to their flight time. “Hayes and family were there when we trashed the Sabres and that’s why I was late to post because that kid wanted, like, eight-hundred photos and now there’s just a questionable amount of disgusting yellow-flavored Powerade in the kitchen on Emma’s floor. Which, I think, makes me better than Anna by default because I’m doing something practical. She’s just shipping nonsense internationally.”  
  
“She’s not going to like that you said that,” Liam muttered, but there was a hint of a smile on his face. “And you kind of even out monetarily when you count the fine.”   
  
Will waved a dismissive hand towards the phone and Killian was breathing, he was still conscious so he must have been breathing, but he was also still a bit confused. “You have my explicit permission to tell Anna I said that,” Will announced. “On the record or whatever.”

Elsa nodded seriously, twisting her lips slightly like they were discussing the GOP of a small country and not the exchange rate of eight-hundred photos to yellow-flavored gatorade. “Noted,” she said. “And, just for that same record, I think technically, the flavor is lime. I don’t think yellow is a flavor.”  
  
“Oh, yeah, good point. You’re definitely the smartest, El. No wonder they put you in charge of this.”   
  
Killian widened his eyes at that and Elsa’s smile turned into a glare almost immediately. “Shut up Scarlet,” she sighed, but she glanced back at Killian and he didn’t really care if he ever found out what Anna was shipping internationally. “You’re worrying too much, KJ. That’s the gist of it. You’re allowed to be on the road without feeling guilty all the time. Stop buying pillows. You’re going to drive Locksley insane.”   
  
“Hey,” Robin shouted, but Elsa shook her head quickly and he didn’t say anything else.

“You are, KJ,” she continued. “This is...the best thing and this team is absurd and Scarlet’s probably breaking eight-thousand rules to get Powerade and Merida definitely wrote out some kind of schedule to make sure Emma’s eating every three hours and I know that was your suggestion, but you’ve got to take, at least, twenty deep breaths and remember how good this is. Stop freaking out.”

He didn’t say anything, just inhaled slowly, trying to fill his lungs to capacity and, goddamnit, she was absolutely right.   
  
“That was good, El, we didn’t even need the schedule,” Ariel muttered, grabbing Killian’s phone and pushing it against his chest. “And call your girlfriend. Tell her you’re sorry you keep suffocating her with emotions and emotional pillows and then maybe mention you’re like...questionably psyched to be a dad.”   
  
“Emma knows all of those things,” Robin said and Ariel rolled her eyes. “Your face is going to get stuck that way.”

She stuck her tongue out at him.

“You guys interfere too much,” Killian grumbled, but he took his phone anyway and he was ready for Ariel when she pressed up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “And Emma’s my fiancé, if we’re going to get technical.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “You’ve got, like, fifteen minutes before we leave. And just squeeze your hand and try and touch your fingers with your thumb while you talk.”  
  
“Red.”   
  
“Just a couple of times. Out of frame.”   
  
“Oh my God,” Will sighed, wrapping an arm around Ariel’s waist to tug her away from Killian’s side. She kicked him in the shin. “Go, Cap. We’ll get you when we leave.”

It took thirty seconds before Killian stopped looking for somewhere quiet, opting instead just to slide down the nearest wall, tugging his tie loose and hitting Emma’s number with his other thumb and she answered on the second ring.

They’d been gone for four days.

And he was a clingy, overprotective asshole because he missed her as soon as he walked away from her, but it was like all of that had gone into some sort of hyperdrive as soon as she told him she was pregnant and he wanted to see everything.

He didn’t want to miss a moment. He wanted to...build something. A home and a family and everything he’d wanted for as long as he could remember.

She probably knew that.

She smiled when she saw him, already back in her office and hair twisted over one shoulder and a blazer over her dress and four days must have been some kind of eternity because he swore he could actually see a slightly larger curve to her stomach.

He felt like his heart had exploded. Or something less violent.

“Hey,” Emma grinned, shaking her hair onto her back and Killian couldn’t think of a single word. She narrowed her eyes, tilting her head slightly when she leaned against the front of her desk. “Nice shirt. Are you still wearing a tie?”  
  
Killian nodded. "Yeah, these shirts are garbage though. Scarlet’s ripped on one good tug.”

“Why are you ripping Scarlet’s shirt?”  
  
“He was pacing.”   
  
“Ah,” she nodded, understanding flitting in her gaze. “Locksley said they were going to talk to you. Did Scarlet start pacing when you argued?”

“No, they started intervention’ing him too.”

“What? An intervention for what?”  
  
“Did you not know about that?” Killian asked and Emma shook her head. “What do you think is going on, Swan?”   
  
Emma blinked, tugging her lower lip in between her teeth and that was distracting. He needed to get that tie off. “I think Locksley’s really tired and you’ve got that website bookmarked on your phone and are spending a questionable amount of time memorizing baby facts. And, uh...I might have mentioned something to him.”   
  
“About the pillows?”   
  
“What?”   
  
Killian shook his head, running his hand through his hair and Emma was still biting her lip. It was probably good that his heart had already exploded because it kind of felt like it was sinking or just turning into cement and neither one of those things even made sense. “That’s...that’s what they were talking to me about,” he said slowly, trying not to sound too disappointed. He knew it didn’t work as soon as he looked back at his phone screen.

“Well, that’s stupid. I didn’t even mention the pillow thing. I’m going to...check him or something.”  
  
“Locksley?” Emma nodded, standing up and pacing a small semicircle in front of her desk. “Swan, you’ve got to sit down, love.”   
  
She ignored him. “Is your leg ok?” she asked instead. “You’ve got to stop blocking shots, it’s freaking me out.”   
  
“It was a power play.”   
  
“I don’t care.”   
  
Killian laughed, some of the tension in his shoulders easing at the determined sound of her voice and the way she kept twisting the ends of her hair around her fingers and he’d buy her a pillow every day for the rest of his goddamn life it meant he got to keep all of this.

“Did Ariel look at it?” Emma continued. There was a Powerade on her desk. “Is it several disgusting colors at once?”

“Nah, she just prodded my hand.”  
  
“What happened to your hand?”   
  
“Getting checked is an occupational hazard, Swan.”

“Yeah, I don’t care about that either,” she sighed, closing her eyes lightly. “You keep sending me pillows. You skipped LA though.”

Killian hummed, a noncommittal, post-intervention noise, like that proved what a mature, capable human being he was and not the slightly nervous of the future, hopeful that he could _do this_ kind of mess he absolutely was.

“Seemed to make the most sense,” he muttered. Emma opened her eyes, staring at him as intently as she could from 33rd Street with a phone in the way or the cloud or however technology worked.

“There’s like...a small mountain of pillows on the bed now. I had to put some in the closet because they kept falling off.”  
  
“Yeah, I think Red’s starting to get pissed off that I’m treating her like my pillow intern.”   
  
“Are you making her buy them?” Emma asked, a hint of laughter in the question and she was smiling again.

Killian shook his head quickly, mumbling _no no no_ under his breath. “I give her the money. It’s not like I’m forcing her to pay for anything. I just can’t go to team stores when I’m supposed to be on the ice. You know every store has shipping options on-site? She figured that out though, I can’t take credit for that part.”   
  
“You know, I’ve been wondering about that. I couldn't figure out how you were getting them here so quickly. The math didn’t make sense at all. But...”

“Yes,” Killian said, answering a question he was only half certain she was trying to ask.

“Mind reader.”  
  
“A suspicion,” he corrected and Emma hummed in approval. “They’ve definitely all been overnighted so they get there quickly and efficiently and a whole slew of other adverbs that aren’t as romantic as this is supposed to be.”   
  
Emma grinned, easy and _meaningful_ and maybe he didn’t really need the intervention. “Romantic, huh?” she asked. “You know, I think the websites call this nesting, Jones.”

“A bit of column A, a bit of column B. Mostly I just want to make sure you’re eating regularly.”

“You’re going to do dangerous things to your blood pressure if you keep worrying about everything, you know.”  
  
“Swan, I skated for twenty minutes tonight. That’s from the official NHL site. My blood pressure is perfectly fine.”   
  
She laughed loudly, eyes bright and green and he couldn’t come up with a single thought that wasn’t just how much he loved her and wanted and _home_ had pillows and Emma was home and it was far too sentimental for anything that even resembled the real world, but he kept overnighting her team-branded pillows, so it kind of made sense.

“Hey,” Emma said suddenly, voice just a bit softer and Killian nearly crashed his head into the wall when he jerked up to look at her. “Are you freaking out? Because that might have been why I talked to Locksley in the first place. I just figured…”  
  
“Figured what, Swan?”   
  
“I didn’t even mention the pillow thing to him, that was all Locksley and A. I just, well, Anna keeps sending all this stuff and I don’t know what to do with twenty pairs of hand-stitched socks and it’s really nice, but it’s also...a lot.” Emma took a deep breath, pursing her lips like she was considering her next words carefully and Killian tried not to start shouting questions at his phone.   
  
“I’ve just...I’ve never had that and I don’t know how to be a _mom_ and there are so many socks here, Killian. I’m going to lose all of the socks and she keeps sending them and I can’t keep track of them between the pillows and all the food Mer keeps trying to actually force feed me and I just really want to do this right, but I can’t even handle handmade gifts from your sister. That can’t be a good starting point, right?”

She sighed again, her whole body sagging forward slightly and one arm wrapping around her middle and Killian did his best to just _will_ his certainty through the phone.

“Emma,” he said and she rolled her whole head in response. “Swan, c’mon, look at me for two seconds.” She did, widening her eyes and lifting her eyebrows. “Why didn’t you tell me about Banana sending all that stuff? I could have talked to her.”  
  
“Because it’s nice,” she groaned. “Like insanely nice and over the top and they’re all patterned and there’s hockey pucks on one of them and she made a hat that’s all Rangers colored and we’re never going to have to buy any clothes because Anna can probably just make all of them.”   
  
“I mean, we should probably buy the kid some real clothes. Maybe something that isn’t team-branded.”   
  
“Please,” Emma muttered. “It’s going to be some kind of miracle if he’s not just decked out in head to toe blue for the rest of his life.”   
  
Killian scoffed, but he couldn't really argue the point either and Matthew Jones, currently the size of a peach per that one website, was already the single most spoiled child in the entire New York metropolitan area.

And possibly the continental United States.

“It’s really nice,” Emma said again. “But I have no idea what to do with all of these socks. And why the socks?”

“She needs to be knitting-intervention’ed. Also I didn’t know that Banana even knew how to knit until I talked to El a couple minutes ago.”

“Is that what it is? Knitting? Because I honestly had no idea. That can’t be a good sign either.”  
  
“Of what, Swan? Your ability to raise another human being? I don’t think being able to pick out stitches is a prerequisite.”

She made some kind of ridiculous noise, almost smiling and he needed to get off the floor so he could get on a plane and go home to a mountain of pillows and Emma and the rest of his goddamn life.

They were going to win again that season. He was sure.

“I’m kind of freaking out,” she mumbled, each one of the words pushed into the next one so it sounded like one enormous syllable.   
  
Killian nodded, dimly aware of a shadow just out of his line of vision and his fifteen minutes were up. “Yeah, I know, love,” he said. “But some kind of team, right? Equally prone to freaking out and bankruptcy via pillows.”   
  
Emma let out a shaky laugh, dragging the heel of her hand across her cheek. “Yeah, that was the agreement, right? Some kind of ridiculously long extension.”   
  
“Exactly that.”   
  
“That is a horrible analogy.”   
  
“No, I like it,” Killian countered, grinning in spite of the nerves and the worry and the questionable number of pillows in their apartment. They were going to be good at this. He was sure. “Lifers with one team.”   
  
“That is almost pitifully bad.”   
  
He grinned at her. “It is. I love you.”   
  
“I love you too,” Emma whispered, arm back around her middle and he definitely wasn’t imagining things when she stood up, grabbing her keys and the half-finished bottle of Powerade off her desk. “Soon, right?”   
  
“Soon,” Killian promised. “Don’t wait up.”   
  
“I’m definitely going to wait up.”   
  
She didn’t – and Killian was sure it wasn’t for lack of trying, but he dropped his bag on the floor just inside the door to find Emma asleep on the couch, two pillows under her head and the blankets pooling around her waist and his heart was probably just going to stage some biological revolt at this point because he kept throwing emotions at it.

Metaphorically.

He toed out of his shoes and he’d taken his tie off before he even got on the plane, but there was still a button-up on under his championship t-shirt and he only paused long enough to tug that off too, dropping it on top of his bag, right next to a UPS box that, he was sure, was filled with hand-knitted socks, before walking across the living room.

Rangers in 60 was playing on the TV.

Killian sat on the edge of the couch, every single muscle protesting at the need to try and support himself with any of his lower body and he was fairly certain that bruise on his calf was questionably green at this point.

She’d changed – dress and blazer becoming leggings and team-branded and his number on her back, just visible when she seemed to twist toward his hand out of instinct, eyelids fluttering when Killian’s fingers trace absently over the curve of her shoulder.

“Hey,” Emma mumbled, the word landing, mostly, into one of the pillows. “I totally wasn’t asleep.”  
  
“Of course not, Swan,” Killian grinned. His hand didn’t stop moving, brushing across her side and her waist and over her stomach.

“It’s because I sleep like garbage when you’re not here.”

“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah,” she said, nodding and only managing to knock one of the pillows on the floor. Her hand came up to rest on his, thumb brushing across the back of his palm and the scars there and doing anything except kissing her felt like some sort of insanity that would require another locker-room intervention.

It probably wasn’t good for any of his muscles – twisted around as he was, with one hand still on her stomach and the other in her hair and his feet doing their best to stay firmly planted on the floor so he didn’t just fall off the couch – but it didn’t matter when Killian could feel Emma sigh against him, like she’d been waiting for that all night and he definitely had.

“If I blame hormones from the start is it super lame to say that I missed you on a two-game road trip?” Emma asked, eyelids fluttering again and he hadn’t actually pulled his forehead away from hers.

Killian made a noise, a contradiction without actually using words and he kissed her again before he answered. “No, love,” he whispered.

“Is your leg ok?”  
  
“It’s fine.”   
  
“Liar.”   
  
“It’s green.”   
  
“Yeah, I kind of figured. But that’s a good sign, right? Add that to the list of things I should know about. Knitting and appropriate bruise color.”   
  
“You don’t need to know either one of those things, Swan,” he said, smiling when Emma whined softly as soon as he stood up. “No one knows about any of those things. You’re...you’re going to be so good at this, Emma. I  know it.” She blinked blearily at him, something in her gaze that seemed to settle in the very center of him and he smiled at her.

“A collective we,” she mumbled, mostly into his shoulder blade. “But you really do have to relax because we both can’t freak out at the same time. That’s not practical at all.”  
  
“That is decidedly out of my control, Swan.”   
  
“Or just generically out of control.”   
  
“Yeah, maybe that too,” Killian admitted, pressing a kiss against her temple. She made a noise in the back of her throat, a contented sound that felt like home and sounded a hell of a lot like a family and maybe, at some point, he could figure out what kind of food schedule Merida had come up with.

And maybe get Emma a pillow for her desk chair. Those had to exist. If he was going to keep telling her to sit down, she should, at least, be comfortable.

Her eyelids were fluttering again, telltale signs of looming sleep when she tried to burrow back into the small mound of blankets she was still underneath and Killian smiled. He slept like shit on the road. “Weren’t you supposed to have a hat too?” Emma asked. Her eyes were completely closed. “And like...a _Sports Illustrated_ cover or something?”   
  
“We only won the Metro, Swan, not another Cup.”   
  
“Yet.”

He kissed her again – mostly because he moved before he realized he’d actually decided to move and Emma made a noise again, fingers tugging on the front of his shirt. “Were there socks in that box over there?” Killian asked and Emma hummed, not even bothering to open her eyes when her lips quirked.

“Probably. It was here when I got home.”  
  
“I’ll call her tomorrow. That’s insane.”   
  
Emma laughed softly, or maybe just started falling asleep again, but she cracked open one eye and tried to blow the piece of hair away from her forehead without actually moving. “I knew you were going to be a giant, overprotective weirdo. You going to go crazy on this playoff run?”

“I have no idea what you’re suggesting, Swan.”  
  
“Yuh huh.”

Killian was still smiling and he almost forgot about his calf and film the next afternoon. He was home and he was going to sleep for several, uninterrupted hours and then he was going to tell Emma Swan he loved her, at least, forty-six times and plan their kid’s entire future. “C’mon, love, you can’t sleep here,” he said. “We own a bed.”  
  
“It’s covered in pillows.”   
  
He squeezed one eye shut, wincing slightly, but Emma took his outstretched hand, wrapping her fingers around his and leaning against his chest as soon as she stood up. “Yeah,” Killian sighed. “I’m...that’s some kind of misplaced effort at proving something.”   
  
“I know,” Emma said, sleep clinging to every single letter. He’d never heard her more clearly.

“What?”  
  
“I know,” she repeated. “I’ve known that the whole time. It’s nice. This whole home thing we’re doing. It’s...we’re going to be good at this. Like. Really good.”   
  
They hadn’t actually moved away from the couch or towards the bed and he was probably just going to sleep in the button-up at this point, but none of those things matter and Killian was fairly certain the world shifted or something equally dramatic, so he wasn’t really worried about his clothes.

“Yeah we are,” he said, brushing his lips over the top of her hair and they fell asleep on top of pillows and blankets and his hand on her stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've snapped our streak of naming things after hockey terms, but this one made so much more sense and everyone just wants to do nice things and good things and no one on this team knows how to do anything by half. I've got a list of growing-by-the-day Blue Line prompts and as long as one of you guys wants to read them, I'm going to keep writing them. Or: you guys are the best and I can't stop writing about this stupid hockey team. 
> 
> Come flail with me on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	5. Confirmed Reports

“This is ridiculous.”  
  
“You’re supposed to be sitting.”   
  
“You’re only saying that because Killian thinks I’m supposed to be sitting. I am fine.”   
  
Merida flushed, making it difficult to see where her hair ended and the rest of her face actually began and Emma grinned like she’d won...well, the Stanley Cup. Again. Maybe. No, definitely.

For sure.

Absolutely.

She was certain and confident and they could clinch that night, but she was so goddamn exhausted that she wasn’t entirely sure she’d locked the apartment door when she left, so, really, she didn’t have a metaphorical leg to stand on.

If she was standing.

Which she wasn’t. And not because Killian was an overprotective _weirdo_ – and she’d lost control of her vocabulary at some point too, delving into middle-school insults over text message and FaceTime throughout this entire playoff run – but because her ankles had swollen to the size of the grapefruit that Matt Jones, apparently, was.

And her back hurt like hell.

Her office chair was not helping much at all, even with that memory foam pillow thing that had just _appeared_ before the playoffs started. She had a few suspicions as to where it came from.

“Boss,” Merida sighed, but Emma was already standing up, wincing slightly when it felt like every single one of her muscles somehow expanded and contracted at the same time. “C’mon, it’s not like that at all.”  
  
“How many times has Killian texted you?”   
  
“Today? Or just like...in the last hour?”   
  
Emma rolled her eyes, sinking back into her chair, a wave of exhaustion and emotion and, maybe, just a bit of frustration rolling over her. Hormones were, easily, the worst thing ever invented. Did that make sense? No, right?

Hormones were just a product of biology and she hadn’t taken a biology class since her junior year of high school and junior year of high school had happened in two different states because the first house she’d been living in had been shut down just before December and…

“Boss,” Merida repeated, snapping the title slightly like it wasn’t the first time she’d said it. It probably wasn’t.

Emma didn’t remember closing her eyes. She shook her head quickly, licking her lips and glancing at the phone on the corner of her desk, flashing like it was masquerading as some sort of Times Square billboard and she had so much to do before puck drop, it was enough to make her head spin.

God, she slept like garbage when Killian wasn’t there. And when Matthew Jones seemed intent on leaving a permanent footprint on her gallbladder.

They’d found out, officially, a few weeks before – in between the second round and the Eastern Conference finals and Killian had absolutely gotten fined because Arthur might have been alright with him missing practice, but the league didn’t really care about things like sonograms and confirming the existence of Matthew Jones when there were media requests and media requirements and something about getting mic’ed up for some special on MSG that already had Ruby pulling her hair out.

Metaphorically.

He’d skipped anyway, shaking his head when Emma tried to argue and it really hadn’t been much of an argument because she wanted him there. She knew he kept that sonogram photo in his equipment bag.

It made her heart swell just thinking about it and she had absolutely lost control of her hormones, however she’d gotten them, because it left her brushing away tears that were decidedly out of place in the middle of her office with a slightly frazzled assistant staring at her and a Stanley Cup just a few hours out of reach.

She wished she was in St. Louis.

She couldn’t be in St. Louis because she had an event to run in Bryant Park – a huge, important event and everyone else was in St. Louis except Merida and Mary Margaret and David and Killian was going to get fined again if he keep trying to text message all of them at once when he was supposed to be at a pregame scrum.

Ruby was going to kill him.

Or at least shake him. Forcefully. She was still on that whole _protect Matt Jones at all cost_ kick.

“How many times?” Emma asked and Merida’s eyebrows nearly flew up her forehead.

“I don’t understand the question,” she admitted. Her phone buzzed – loudly – in her pocket and Emma just widened her eyes, nodding towards the noise as Merida did her best to bore a hole into the carpet.

“How many times has he texted you? We’ll include that one.”

Merida pursed her lips, sighing as if she were battling some kind of immovable force and she might have been because Emma was nothing if not stubborn and, at last count, she’d been texted somewhere in the realm of several dozen times that day.

It wasn’t even five o’clock yet.

And David had wanted to follow her around all day to make sure she ate at some sort of hourly interval. She didn’t even bother asking where he got those instructions from.

It would have been frustrating if it weren’t so goddamn adorable.

“Uh….that’s not Cap,” Merida said, nodding towards the phone in her hand. Her eyes widened and Emma was momentarily concerned, something about faces and them sticking that way, but it only lasted as long as the relative silence in her office.

And the silence didn’t last long.

Her desk phone rang shrilly, shaking like it was trying to _tell her something,_  and her cell phone rang and vibrated at the same time, an impressive feat she didn’t entirely know was possible, but she’d been calling her fiancé an overprotective weirdo and trying to figure out the origins of hormones for most of the day, so, all things considered, the technology of her phone was last on a the list of things she was willing to spend much time thinking about.

“Jeez, it’s like we’re under attack,” Emma mumbled, grabbing the desk phone and Merida made some kind of noise in the back of her throat, like that was, somehow, surprising. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Ruby said, not even letting Emma get a greeting out before delving into apologies that didn’t make sense.

Her cell phone was still ringing. Merida was talking to someone else.

Ruby took a deep breath, ignoring whatever noise of protest Emma made and Matthew Jones kicked, what felt like, both of her kidneys at the same time. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry...wait, did you just gasp? What’s going on? Are you ok?”  
  
“I have no idea what’s going on,” Emma said, leaning forward to press the heel of her hand into the bottom of her spine. “Except that we’re supposed to be getting some kind of balloon arch thing for the game tonight. Mer, did that arch thing come yet?”   
  
Merida nodded distractedly and Emma got the distinct impression she was being placated. She sighed again, but it sounded a bit more like a growl and Ruby hissed in more air from St. Louis, the sound of a very lively locker room barely audible on the other end.

“Em, the arch is going to get there,” Ruby said, but there was a hint of desperation in her voice and it sounded like she was jogging. Or running. It sounded like she was running somewhere, the sounds behind her quickly fading out until Emma could barely hear the shouting.

“Yuh huh,” Emma muttered, resting the phone against her shoulder and reaching up to toy with the ring around her neck. Merida’s eyes were absolutely going to get stuck that way.

And her cell phone was going to vibrate off her desk.

She glanced down at the screen, not sure if she actually wanted to see who was so desperately trying to contact her when she had balloon arches and security issues and signed merch that was, probably, somewhere on 6th Avenue, to worry about.

Ah, damn, she’d left her lunch on the counter at home.

“Mer,” Emma called, ignoring Ruby’s continued apologies for _whatever_ , and sitting up straighter in some vaguely desperate way to realign her spine.

Merida nodded, mumbling a few words to whoever she was talking to. “You want Pret again?”  
  
“What?”   
  
“Pret. I mean that salad with the cranberries has been like...your life force all postseason.”   
  
“How do you know that?”   
  
Merida blinked, holding up both of her hands like it was obvious and it kind of was because Emma had actually lost track of the number of times she’d ordered that one salad with cranberries from Pret in the last month and a half. She was fairly certain the teenage kid behind the counter thought she was stalking him.

Killian thought it was hysterical.

And kept bags of dried cranberries in a jar on their kitchen counter. Next to the Conn-Smythe they’d never given back.

“Emma,” Ruby shouted and she’d entirely forgotten there was still a person on the phone. Mary Margaret was texting her. There was barely any time between one message and the next and her cell phone had only stopped ringing long enough to start again and David was probably breaking some kind of police rule by calling her when he was absolutely supposed to be on duty.

“Still here,” Emma said, but she was, admittedly, distracted by thoughts of cranberries and a little annoyed that Merida wasn’t on her way to get cranberries, especially when Merida started muttering names under her breath.

“Well, just tell him that it’s just _The Daily News_ ,” Merida said quickly, still waving her hands through the air and pacing a tiny circle into the carpet. “They don’t even have a celebrity section. I know, I know he’s not a celebrity, Scarlet. It’ll probably just end up in the corner of the sports. If you guys win, it’ll be a blip on the radar.”   
  
“Scarlet,” Emma echoed, nearly screeching out the word and Ruby made some kind of strangled noise in St. Louis.   
  
“Oh my God,” she sighed, a quiet _thump_ on the other end of the phone that might have just been her entire body collapsing on the floor.

The office chair, somehow, felt even more uncomfortable than before. And her spleen was going to be bruised if her kid didn’t stop kicking her.

Killian had told her the website claimed Matthew Jones could _hear_ things at this point, was vaguely aware of the outside world and needed _nurturing sounds_ and _classical music_ and the general breakdown of the New York Rangers front office just a few hours removed from Game 5 of the Stanley Cup Finals, in goddamn St. Louis, did not seem to fall into either one of those categories.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Ruby chanted again, the sound of her heel scraping on the floor in whatever hallway she was in sounding like nails on some kind of metaphorical chalkboard.

Will was still talking to Merida.

And Emma still didn’t have any dried cranberries.

Or whatever dressing they used on that salad. She was incredibly hungry.

“Rubes, you’re not actually telling me what is going on,” Emma said, doing her best to keep her voice even. It didn’t really work.

Ruby sighed, sounding as if she were trying to monopolize the oxygen in the entire city of St. Louis. Emma wasn’t sure where to look. She groaned when her phone let out another long string of vibrations, certain her inbox was just a few messages away from combusting, and grabbed the stupid thing, slamming her thumb into the screen until it felt like she’d actually strained a muscle.

Mary Margaret had texted her forty-seven times. In the last five minutes.

The last few just seemed like a string of consciousness that didn’t really make much sense, but it had been that kind of day and Emma still hadn’t gotten confirmation about the goddamn, fucking balloon arch.

**Ok, so just take deep breaths.**

**And maybe get Merida to find you some sort of Bach or Beethoven or something. Because that’s supposed to be calming, just generally, and good for the baby. All the websites say that.**

**Not that I’m reading websites.**

**I mean, that’d be weird, right? I’m just...you know, me.**

**David says I should tell you that I’m totally reading websites. He claims it’s breaking the rules otherwise, but I think he’s just making those rules up now and absolutely downloaded some symphony onto his phone so he could play them for Mattie the next time you guys come over.**

**Post-Cup, obviously. He made me type that too.**

**Emma, this is David now. I did not make her type that. I suggested she type that and also told her you wouldn’t even be remotely surprised that she was looking at websites because that is, easily, the most Mary Margaret thing that has ever happened.**

**She wants to ask you and Killian about what color you’re going to paint Matt’s room, but she’s too nervous**

**Also. Answer your phone.**

As if to prove his point, Emma’s phone rang in her hand. It shouldn’t have taken her by surprise, but there was a metaphorical grapefruit sitting on several different internal organs and she still had _no idea_ what was going on and Merida was still trying to get Will to calm down.

At least that’s what it sounded like.

“What?” Emma snapped, lifting her cell phone to her other ear and Ruby started answering the question. “No, no, not you, Rubes,” she said quickly. Her head was starting to spin. She was going to pop every single balloon in the balloon arch and enjoy it.

“Who else are you talking to?” Ruby demanded. “He’s still in media. I just walked out to warn you.”  
  
“Is that Ruby?” David shouted, like he could scream loudly enough for his voice to be heard in St. Louis. It worked. Of course it did.

Ruby clicked her tongue impatiently and Merida was absolutely going to rip the carpet if she didn’t stop moving. “Isn’t David supposed to be working?” she asked. “I thought he switched shifts so that he could be at the Park and make sure you actually sat down at some point.”  
  
“What?” Emma yelled, frustration settling at the base of her spine when she realized she couldn’t throw her hands up the way she wanted to. She was holding two different phones. “Whose plan was that?”   
  
“I’ll give you one guess,” Merida muttered, flashing a slightly cautious smile Emma’s direction.

Ruby mumbled something again and David sounded like he was actually trying to swallow his laughter while Mary Margaret shouted, possible, encouragements from wherever they happened to be. Maybe they were in Bryant Park.

Maybe they knew about the balloon arch.

Emma opened her mouth – not sure who she was going to direct her question to or if, maybe, she should just walk to Pret herself and buy her own goddamn cranberry salad. Without the avocado. That part was gross.

The teenager behind the counter absolutely knew she didn’t get avocados on her salad. They probably had her photo up in the back room with explicit instructions not to put avocados on that crazy pregnant lady’s salad.

“She’s fine Scarlet, jeez, relax,” Merida growled and there was an edge in her voice that Emma didn’t entirely expect. Ruby cackled. Or possibly just started the rather quick descent into insanity that Emma was fairly certain began as soon as she had run onto the ice in South Korea.

MSG wouldn’t stop playing that clip. It had a questionable number of hits on several different YouTube uploads that Emma probably shouldn’t have looked up, but she was curious and maybe, in some perverse way, fascinated by the interest and David had told her that the subReddit had started some kind of board guessing what they were going to name their kid.

The subReddit was totally fucked up.

And Emma hadn’t looked at that board.

Or actually confirmed anything.

They hadn’t really decided on it – although Ruby had tried to stage that very awkward conversation a few weeks after the Olympics and then, again, just before the playoffs started and Killian had glared at her and, well, that was that.

There was no confirmation. There was no announcement. Emma wasn’t the famous one. There were just rumors and speculation and, God, that one Perez Hilton article like it was 2008 and Perez Hilton was still relevant or Killian was actually Tom Brady or something.

Which would probably mean Emma was Giselle in this muddled analogy she’d come up with, but she was fairly positive Giselle’s ankles had never swollen this much.

“Scarlet, jeez,” Merida continued, stopping mid-pace to glare at open air and Ruby was still laughing. David was trying to ask Emma questions.

She stood up abruptly, nearly knocking her chair back and, good, the chair deserved to be on the losing end of whatever it was they were, all, collectively staging a few hours before puck drop.

“What is he talking about?” Emma asked, staring at her assistant until Merida actually retreated a few steps. The phone in her left hand made noise and David was still mumbling under his breath. “God, no, David, not you. Will. Where is Will, Mer?”  
  
“In the hallway with me,” Ruby answered, almost immediately. Merida rolled her eyes towards the ceiling, looking like she was only just barely hanging on to her control. “Hey, Scarlet,” she continued, like any of this made sense and Emma resisted the urge to actually kick her chair.

Will shouted something unintelligible, what might have just been a string of increasingly impressive curses and what sounded like _Cap’s a goddamn idiot_ and Ruby hummed in agreement.

“Will someone tell me what the fuck is going on?” Emma shouted, jumping slightly like that was a good idea or would get anyone to actually acknowledge her.

Merida opened her mouth to reprimand her – jumping was probably on that list of _things Emma isn’t supposed to do_ that Killian had definitely come up with at some point – but Emma just shook her head and she could hear David’s quiet sigh from, probably, somewhere on the island of Manhattan.

“Scarlet is worried about you,” Ruby explained, kicking at something that might have been Will’s shin if the not-quite-quiet yelp on the _other_ phone was any indication. “Because, uh…”   
  
“Cap’s a goddamn fucking idiot,” Will finished. He made a noise when Ruby tried to disagree and Emma’s eyes darted towards Merida, glancing down when another phone found its way into her eye line and there was a Twitter feed on the screen.

“What is this?” Emma asked, shifting her shoulders again so she actually had a free hand. “Scarlet, if you’re going to keep making noises, you’ve got to at least try and turn them into actual words. I’ve got balloon arches to worry about, I can’t spend my day trying to translate your grunts.”

Will chuckled, mumbling under his breath to _shove over, Lucas_ and the phone changed hands. “That was actually pretty funny, Em.”   
  
“Yeah, that’s been known to happen. What’s going on? C’mon, David sounds like he’s having a conniption on the other phone.”   
  
“Isn’t he supposed to be at work?”

“Why do you know that?”  
  
“If you don’t think Cap’s got David’s entire life scheduled to make sure you sit at some point during the game tonight, then you’ve been possessed by aliens or something.”   
  
“I’m not sure that even makes sense.”   
  
“Eh, I’m kind of distracted.”   
  
David was swearing in her left ear, a string of insults directed at some name Emma didn’t recognize, but she did hear _internet cretins_ several times and Mary Margaret trying to quiet him. “By Killian being...how did you phrase it? A goddamn fucking idiot?” Emma asked and Will laughed again. “You know you’ve got to work on your insults. Does this have something to do with whatever Twitter thing I’m not actually looking at?”   
  
Will hissed in his breath and Emma wasn’t quite prepared for their sudden dive into serious. She was fairly certain it was anything except what it absolutely was.

“You really might want to look at this, boss,” Merida said, twisting her wrist slightly until Emma’s eyes fell back towards the phone screen.

The timestamp said it had been up for fifteen minutes.

There were several thousand retweets.

“Oh my God,” Emma breathed, met, almost immediately with another kick to an internal organ she didn’t realize she had until Matthew Jones developed a penchant for kung fu. “He...he actually said that?”

“We’ll go over media training again in the offseason, Em,” Ruby promised. She had to shout the words when Will refused to give up the phone and it sounded like she was actively trying to check him against the wall.

“How did this even happen?”  
  
“He was baited into it,” Will answered. “God, stop punching me, Lucas. I can’t think when you do that. And it wasn’t entirely his fault, Emma. There were a lot of questions about playing for a second straight Cup and history and then some guy from the _Daily News_ asked what his motivation was since last year was about resigning and it was like someone flicked a switch and…”

“And we ended up with a thousand retweets,” Emma said.

“Plus a subReddit that is absolutely losing its mind,” David added, a note of something that sounded like a mix between anger and disbelief and the deep-rooted need to play older brother in his voice. “Hey, you eat yet?”  
  
Emma shook her head, well aware that the only person who could see her was her slightly overwhelmed assistant, still holding her phone out. “That sounds like a no,” Mary Margaret said, the first time she’d joined the conversation in vocal form, but Emma barely registered the words, too busy staring at Merida’s phone.

There were more retweets now. She wished she hadn’t knocked her chair over. There was nothing to dramatically sink into now.

Emma reached out, grabbing Merida’s phone without a word and she wasn’t really as upset as everyone seemed to assume she would have been.

Should have been?  
  
They hadn’t really talked about it. There hadn’t been a need. They’d been ignoring the rumors and the reports and there was a Cup on the line. Again. Win first. Plan...everything else later.

Except there was no way to really hide it anymore – even the oversized jersey she had on didn’t do much to hide the swell of her stomach and that guy behind the counter at Prett probably would have gone on the record to several different dailies about Emma’s cranberry salad consumption.

And, well, there were quotes now.

Emma’s eyes traced over the tweets again, like she was trying to will every single letter into every single corner of her mind and if she actually had a free hand, she probably would have rested it on her stomach.

_Cap on his motivation for this run: It’s a personal thing. I’m not really playing for me. There’s bigger things than hockey here._

_Yeah, yeah, you know, I've got a family here in New York and my_ _fiancée_ _and I...well, this Finals run has kind of been about that…_

_I guess I've just kind of been waiting for a run like this. Last year was incredible, don't get me wrong, but this is a lot bigger._

_[Not] playing for me or the extension. This is about my future and my kid's future and leaving a mark on a sport that's changed my life._

“They kind of lost their shit after the kid part,” Will mumbled, jerking Emma’s attention away from Merida’s phone and whatever it was her heart was doing against her ribcage. She winced at another kick. “Wait, what was that? Are you ok?”  
  
“I’m fine, Scarlet,” Emma promised and it was the truth and she really just wanted that stupid cranberry salad. “The kid is just painfully aware of when he’s been discussed in the press.”

Will let out a strangled sound that might have been a laugh or just choking on a surplus of oxygen in some hallway in the Scottrade Center and David might have actually _whooped_ on the _other_ phone Emma forgot was still pressed up to her ear.

“David, don’t you have a job?” Emma asked. “Are crimes being left unsolved because you were worried about my reaction to the internet?”

He scoffed, but that was kind of an answer and Merida almost looked looked like she was breathing at a normal level again. “I took the whole day off,” he mumbled, sounding like he was admitting to one of those crimes he wasn’t solving and Emma’s laugh seemed to just bubble out of her.

God, she was an emotional, hormonal, still-hungry mess.

“Of course you did,” she said, leaning against the edge of her desk in an attempt to stop the dull ache in her back. It didn’t work. She almost didn’t mind.

She was happy and charmed and this absolutely was not the plan – there hadn’t been a plan – but her mind kept repeating those words she’d tried to will into every inch of her consciousness until it felt like a metronome for her heart and her kid’s kicks against her spleen and maybe they should start planning a wedding.

They were absolutely going to win. Again.

“Rubes, why are you in the hallway?” Emma asked, the question dawning on her suddenly. “Shouldn’t you be in there yelling at people?”  
  
“Ok, well, that’s kind of rude,” Ruby started, a noise that sounded like another elbow to Will’s side when he didn’t immediately give up the St. Louis phone. “And Scarlet already told you, he walked right into it. I still can’t quite believe it actually happened. Cap just kind of started talking and said the word _kid_ out loud, like that was something we’d decided was ok and, well, I knew it was going to be everywhere and I wanted to make sure you had some kind of warning.”   
  
“So you called to apologize?”   
  
“Because apparently all my media training has not sunk in at all.”   
  
“And I’m a much better mini-Jones defender than Lucas is,” Will added, yelping when Ruby smacked at his shoulder. “God, Lucas, you’re going to bruise me before I even get on the ice. You really didn’t eat though, Em? Cap’s going to murder me when he finds out.”   
  
“Or Locksley,” Ruby corrected and Will hummed in agreement. “That was his job.”   
  
“I’m sorry, what?” Emma asked and Mary Margaret actually laughed, apparently gifted with the power of super sonic hearing.

“Emma, for real?” Mary Margaret asked, disbelief in the question and they all might have been on speaker for how easily it was to hear each other. Will was laughing again. “There was a whole list of things. There has been since the Olympics. Every road trip. And it’s not because he doesn’t think you can't feed yourself, although you do get slightly single-minded...it’s because he is so excited. That’s why he stumbled into the questions today. He’s...like bursting with it. It’s obvious every single time he glances your direction.”

Her heart was going to explode.

Or maybe she was going to cry.

They were strangely similar feelings.

And Emma was half a second away from just hanging up on all the phones she was still inexplicably holding and calling Killian when she heard a commotion on the St. Louis side of the conversation and her heart, suddenly, was threatening to beat its way out of her chest.

“Give me the goddamn phone,” Killian said, the words perfectly clear even when it was obvious he was standing up and Ruby mumbled _yeah, Cap, God, calm down_ under her breath.

There was a shuffling in St. Louis and Emma was dimly aware of Merida grabbing the New York phone away from her shoulder, muttering something to David and Mary Margaret that sounded a hell of a lot like the location of the goddamn balloon arch.

She didn’t listen.

She was too focused on her heart and the grapefruit and the way Killian seemed to just sigh “Swan” into the phone as soon as it was in his hand.

“Hey,” Emma said, the smile easy and the kick immediate and her hand dropped to her side quickly. “Are you ok?”  
  
“Are you? Did you eat?”

“Yes and no.”  
  
“Swan.”   
  
“I’ve got balloon arches to worry about. And the precinct is being just, like, one collectively large dick about security because they think there’s going to be a riot if you guys win or something, like we didn’t do this last year too and…”   
  
“Swan,” Killian repeated and she could barely hear footsteps making their way back down the hallway. She snapped her jaw shut, glancing towards Merida who just nodded and mouthed _cranberries_ at her before jogging out of the office.

“The whole battalion rallied, Cap,” Emma said, smiling when she bent down to turn her chair upright. “They were all very worried I was going to have some sort of pregnancy-induced mental breakdown over a string of tweets.”  
  
He didn’t say anything immediately and Emma’s heart seemed to pick up at that, her pulse pounding in between her ears and possibly under the hand that still hadn’t left her stomach. “Did you know that the first arena the Blues played in was actually just called The Arena?” she asked and Killian laughed softly, several thousand miles and one not-quite disastrous pre-game press conference away.

“Not very creative,” he said and she didn’t need to be next to him to know his hand was in his hair and he’d absolutely sat down at some point, one leg stretched out in front of him.

“Right? Where’s the fun in that?”  
  
“Was that a joke, Swan?”   
  
“A poor attempt, but only because I’m kind of exhausted.” Killian sighed and the hand probably moved or tugged on the back of his hair and Emma scowled at her office wall. “That is not some kind of secret message,” she continued. “That is just...your kid practicing breakaways or something.”

He laughed again and the sound seemed to work its way down Emma’s spine and into her soul or something equally absurd and he’d said _my kid_ during a press conference. She was probably going to think about that all night.

“I don’t know how any of this happened,” Killian muttered.

“The kid? You were there, I think.”  
  
“That was another very bad joke, Swan.”   
  
“That was funny,” she argued, fingers finding their way back to her ring and Killian probably rolled his eyes. “C’mon, admit it, that was definitely funny.”   
  
“I’m not acknowledging bad jokes, love and you know that’s not really what I meant.” He took another deep breath, huffing it out like he’d been holding it for days or, possibly, since a pre-game presser that had fallen completely off the rails and there was probably a story to go along with the tweets now and Emma was almost surprised that the group text on her phone hadn’t just dissolved into both Vanklad sisters screaming things.

She had no idea where Merida put her phone.

“Yeah, I know,” Emma said. “And I really am going to eat. Mer went to get that one salad from Pret, so stand down on whoever you were supposed to kill because they didn’t remind me to eat. There are a couple other things going on here, you know, Cap.”

“I’m fairly positive I don’t care about any of those things.”  
  
“Sap.”   
  
“Honest.”   
  
“And suddenly absolutely horrible at answering questions,” Emma muttered, leaning back until her hair fanned over the top of her chair and there was a dull buzz coming from some corner of the office.

The Vankalds had arrived – via text message.

“Lucas is going to kill me,” Killian sighed. “I thought her eyes were going to actually fall out of her head as soon as the words were out of my mouth.”  
  
“A lovely picture.”   
  
“Ah, well, Scarlet and Locksley both threatened to check me into several different boards in the middle of the presser, so, there’s apparently some kind of line.”

“Everyone on this team needs to relax. Did El and Anna call yet?”  
  
Killian hummed. “I have no doubt, but my phone is in my locker and will stay there, possibly, for the rest of time. I’m thinking I’ll just get a new phone when I get home. And only give you the number. Everyone else can...whatever.”   
  
“Eloquent,” Emma grinned, glancing up when Merida appeared out of thin air with a salad in one hand and lemonade in the other. “Also the food is here, so cross that off the list of worries everyone knows you made.”   
  
“That was a more metaphorical list than anything. It’s not like I wrote it all down.”   
  
“Just threatened teammates a few hours before you could clinch a second straight Cup and make history and…”   
  
“Confirm reports that we’re having a kid without meaning to,” Killian finished, sighing again and Emma wished Merida would teach her how to teleport so she could get to St. Louis and back before the balloon arch issue evolved into a complete debacle. “And I’m glad you’re eating. I was kind of worried about that.”   
  
“Kind of?”   
  
“Incredibly. Absolutely. Completely. Any of those work?”   
  
“Those are all pretty good, actually,” Emma mumbled through a mouthful of salad and Merida had absolutely picked the avocado off because there was still a hint of _gross_ and if Scarlet was determined to defend her honor maybe he could beat up on the kid at Pret.

She’d clearly lost her mind.

“I’m sorry, Swan,” Killian said after a few moments of silence and every letter felt strained. She narrowed her eyes, glaring at the wall again like any of this was a problem and Mary Margaret was right.

Mary Margaret was always right.

“For what, exactly?” Emma asked, downing half the lemonade in four gulps and stabbing her fork into the salad until it could stand up on its own.

Killian took another deep breath, sighing it out with the kind of drama that did not belong in a playoff run or a season that had been so close to perfect Emma kept waiting to wake up.

She didn’t.

They kept winning.

That was some kind of metaphor.

“I don’t...I have no idea how that happened. The guy asked about what this whole run meant and there were dates thrown around and something about history and it was like my brain just dissolved into the absolute truth and Locksley kept mumbling shut up and Scarlet kept trying to elbow me in the side without anyone seeing, but everyone saw and then Lucas did that thing with her eyes and, suddenly, I realized I’d said _my kid_ and it was...every single word of that was true, Emma, but we hadn’t actually decided and…”   
  
“Shut up,” she interrupted and Killian sounded like he was choking. “Just...agh, shut up for two seconds and stop apologizing for being a giant sap and just…”   
  
They were horrible at finishing sentences.

They should probably finish that. Parents finished sentences. _My kid_. Jeez.

Emma slumped in the chair – as much as she was able, digging her heel into the carpet and her fork was still standing up, perfectly vertical in a mound of salad that she couldn’t possibly be expected to eat when she was feeling every single human emotion at once.

“Did they take the avocados off your salad?” Killian asked softly and Emma might have laughed or just _dissolved_ and she should probably screenshot those tweets.

Anna probably had.

They’d probably end up framed in the brownstone.

“How could you possibly know that?” Emma countered.

He scoffed, skate guard sounding impossibly loud when he tugged his leg back up and she only just realized he’d called her Emma.

That felt like cheating. Skating into the crease. Or an offsides that didn’t get called. Or something. There’d probably be a review on that.

She had definitely lost her mind.

And forgotten about the balloon arch entirely.

“Swan,” Killian muttered, groaning slightly when he stood back up. “Give me a little credit here, love. I think you’ve scared that poor kid behind the counter for life.”  
  
Emma made a face. At the wall. They should have had this conversation on FaceTime, if only so she could actually see Killian’s face and maybe stay on some kind of track in this moment that seemed questionably focused on the well-being of Pret employees. “Don’t _poor kid_ that teenager, Killian,” she argued. “They don’t even take orders now. You press buttons on a machine and they ignore my no avocados caveat completely nine times out of ten. Mer definitely took avocados off this salad.”   
  
He must have nodded because she could hear something that sounded decidedly like playoff scruff scraping against the phone and that almost felt normal and not apologetic. “You called me Emma,” she added, squeezing one eye closed when it sounded like an accusation and the whiplash of this conversation was exhausting.

She hoped Matthew Jones stopped practicing breakaways later that night. There’d be more work if they won. She really wanted to sleep.

They were definitely going to win.

“Yeah,” Killian admitted. “It felt like a kind of big moment type of thing.”  
  
“There’s probably eighty-seven stories out there now. I think David was trying to fight the internet before. Or figure out how to arrest the entire subReddit.”   
  
“That part wasn’t actually because of me. He’s just supposed to make sure you sit down at least six times after puck drop.”   
  
“Seems like an arbitrary number.”   
  
“At least twice a period for five minutes.”   
  
“Of game time?”   
  
“No, David claimed that was too much math to try and figure out. He was very serious about using the timer on his phone though.”   
  
Emma rolled her eyes, but every single human emotion had, at some point, evolved into just plain old happiness and she didn’t care about the headlines or the stories or even the quotes if _their kid_ was the reason behind some sort of historic Stanley Cup victory.

“Yeah, that doesn’t surprise me at all,” she said. “He tried to get me to come uptown yesterday, but Reese’s was scandalized at even the idea of me sleeping on anything except an enormous bed, so that got shut down pretty quickly.”  
  
Killian chuckled, but there was still a note of _something_ in the sound and Emma was standing before she even realized she’d decided, mumbling _hold on_ and stalking across her office to try and find her phone. It was behind a box of signed merch that, apparently, hadn’t made it to Bryant Park yet.

“God damn,” she groaned, pushing the box out of the way and swiping her thumb across the phone screen. There were twenty-four text messages in the group chat.

She didn’t read any of them, just clicked on the camera and ignored the bags under her eyes and whatever it was that one piece of hair was doing, clicking on buttons before her mind could actually catch up. “You have to delete that later because that’s Ruby’s phone and she probably doesn’t want pictures of me in your jersey,” Emma said, rushing over the words and Killian exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for the entire conversation.

“Swan,” he breathed and maybe she was the one blushing now and maybe she should sit down again because her knees suddenly felt a bit more wobbly than usual.

“I’m happy,” Emma said, trying to infuse every bit of honesty and meaning and _important_ into two words. “And excited and slightly terrified and I wish I was in St. Louis because we’re going to win again and I know we didn’t really talk about confirmation or a plan, but as far as either one of those things go, just stumbling your way through an explanation of why you’re playing works pretty well.”   
  
“There was no stumbling involved, love.”   
  
“No?”   
  
“No,” Killian said. Someone was shouting his name at the other end of the hallway, but he didn’t take a step. Or, at least, it didn’t sound that way. “I am absolutely playing for our kid. And I am also excited and slightly terrified and happier than I can ever remember being.”   
  
She sniffled. Of course. “Do not point out that I am crying,” Emma mumbled, dragging a knuckle underneath her eye and she was fairly positive she _heard_ his answering smile. “As the photographic evidence proves, Cap, we weren’t going to be able to keep this one under some sort of metaphorical hat for much longer. No matter what Ruby and Scarlet may believe.”   
  
“They’re taking their roles very seriously.”   
  
“I know they are. So you are.”   
  
“I think we both are, Swan,” he said softly and she couldn’t seem to stop crying, but _our kid_ sounded even better than _my kid_ and Emma just wanted to sleep through the night again and organize another Stanley Cup parade and then, probably, live happily ever after or something. “And I slept like shit last night. I thought Locksley was actually going to smother me with his pillow at one point.”   
  
“Go win a Cup and come home then.”   
  
He was smiling. She was positive. “Fairly simple marching orders, General. Anything else besides just generic winning?”   
  
“Nah. A win works. We don’t need Mattie Jones picking up any other pointers on new ways to destroy my organs with fancy on-ice moves.”

There was another _Jones, seriously, get the fuck in this locker room_ and Emma dropped back into her chair, head thrown back and her whole body shaking with laughter and Matthew Jones seemed to pick up on that as well.

“You probably don’t need to worry about Locksley killing you later, Arthur’s going to do it in the middle of the hallway,” Emma muttered. “You better go or you’re going to get fined again and the website claimed we’re supposed to be starting some kind of savings account at this point.”  
  
“Because the cost of raising a kid is nearly $226,000.”   
  
“Why do you know that off the top of your head?”   
  
“I read. I’ve got...time.”   
  
“When you’re not sleeping?”   
  
Killian hummed, a noncommittal sound and someone was sprinting down the hallway, stopping close enough to him that he mumbled a string of curses at the person Emma could only imagine was Ariel. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be there in five seconds,” Killian muttered, swatting at something. “My hand is fine, Red. Go talk to Scarlet about that bruise on his thigh.”   
  
“Is that from that blocked shot here?” Emma asked and Merida was back in the doorway, tapping a finger on a watch she wasn’t actually wearing and they were all going to get fined.

“He’s fine,” Killian promised. “And why are you quoting the site, Swan? How much not sleeping is not sleeping?”  
  
“That’s a convoluted sentence. And you really need to go get dressed.”   
  
“I’m, at least, three quarters of the way there. Tell Matt Jones to stop beating up on your organs, Swan. Two minutes for roughing.”   
  
Emma groaned, but the muscles in her cheeks were starting to ache from overuse. “Look who’s making bad jokes now. I retract my previous marching orders. We would both like a goal. Also, in this scenario do I outrank you?”   
  
“Well, there are no generals on hockey teams,” Killian laughed and Arthur sounded like he was dissolving into hysterics at the other end of the hall. “But a goal seems doable, so I guess in the grand scheme, yeah. Also you said we.”   
  
“As long as he’s kicking my internal organs, I get to claim the kid as part of the demands too. Plus, that website was totally right. He totally knows it’s you. There are flips and kicks and slashes every time you talk, which seems like playing favorites, but whatever.”   
  
She thought Arthur had walked down the hall, grabbed the phone and crushed it one hand. There wasn’t a single sound in St. Louis. She couldn’t even hear Killian breathing, let alone respond and Emma widened her eyes when she waited for an answer.

“Killian,” Emma said slowly and his breath hitched. “You ok?”  
  
He must have nodded again, but that still wasn’t an actual answer and she tried to reign in her impatience. “Is that….” he started and Emma was an idiot. She was going to start crying again. “He really does that?”   
  
“Yeah,” she said. “Like clockwork.”   
  
He exhaled again and no one was shouting for him anymore. “Hey, Mattie,” Killian muttered, softly enough that Emma could barely hear him. “Could you stop slashing your mom? Like, at least, for the night? She’s got stuff to do and I know she hasn’t actually eaten that salad Merida brought her. So if you could just give her a couple hours to figure out balloon arches, that’d be great. Plus you don’t want those penalty minutes.”   
  
Matthew Jones kicked in response. Hard.

And Emma had given up even trying to tempering whatever hormones were in control of her entire being. Merida looked a little glossy-eyed too.

“Sap,” Emma mumbled again, but Killian just laughed and maybe she didn’t really have to wait for happily ever after. “And you’re some kind of weird soothsayer. We should forget this whole hockey thing, just parade you around the country and let you predict people’s eating habits.”

“I think that’s just your eating habits, love,” Killian countered and, well, that was probably true. “Eat the cranberries, please. And sit down at least twice a period. I’m going to skate like shit otherwise.”  
  
“Oh, that’s cheating. I can’t be held responsible for your skating habits.”   
  
“I’m pulling out all the stops here, Swan.”   
  
“Yeah, I don’t think you have to worry about that. Between Reese’s and David, it’s a wonder I’m not just working in some kind of bubble-wrap suit at this point. I will sit down three times a period if you can promise me a goal.”

“But, like, a real chair. Not one of those terrifying things that they have in the Park.”  
  
“Do you hear yourself?” Emma asked. “You are critiquing chairs.”   
  
“Emma.”   
  
“Killian.”   
  
“Boss,” Merida cut in, a pained expression on her face and Emma would probably have to buy her assistant several somethings to make up for the insanity that had been pregnancy and playoffs. “We’ve really got to go or we’re going to hit traffic up Broadway.”   
  
Emma nodded, tugging on the ends of her jersey when she stood up. “A goal, Jones. And a Cup. Mostly a Cup. I don’t want to see any bad headlines. Only celebratory ones that Mrs. V can frame downstairs.”

“That’s fair,” Killian said. “And I’ve got every intention of ignoring every single headline from here on out, but I’ll see what I can do about winning.”  
  
“Good. We love you.”

He was smiling. She knew it. They were going to win.

“I love both of you too,” he said. “More than anything.”

* * *

David brought a chair. And, really, Emma shouldn’t have been surprised because _of course_ David brought a chair, but she wasn’t entirely ready for him to actually follow her around Bryant Park with it, muttering statistics that he’d never admit to actually looking up, only pausing long enough to get bottles of Powerade from Mary Margaret because, as he put it, _you have to stay hydrated, Emma, it’s humid out_.

Mary Margaret took pictures of it all.

And that included Emma kicking the chair and David’s scandalized face and Mrs. Vankald’s slightly stunned face because Mrs. Vankald had stayed in the city and brought Emma cookies, actual _cookies,_ like she’d just gotten an A on a term paper instead of planned a Stanley Cup Finals event, and then offered to let her stay in the brownstone that night if she wanted.

Emma absolutely was not prepared for that.

She probably should have been.

“I told Anna and Elsa not to yell at him too much,” Mrs. V said, just a few minutes left on the clock and Killian had scored in the second period and Mary Margaret had taken a picture of Emma’s reaction.

Emma blinked, jerking her head to the left and Mrs. V was smiling. _Beaming._ God, the whole lot of them were emotional maelstroms. The Rangers were winning.

“It’s because he’s excited,” Mrs. V continued, reaching out to squeeze Emma’s hand. “This is…” She took a deep breath, blinking a few times before she started talking again and St. Louis had pulled John Blues or whatever his name actually was out of net. “He’s waited a long time for this. A family. And something bigger than the game and I am so happy for both of you.”

Mrs. V didn’t wait for a response before she was hugging Emma and Mary Margaret was still taking pictures and someone yelled when the buzzer went off in St. Louis. It might have been Emma. She wasn’t really sure.

They’d won.

Again.

“Oh my God,” Emma breathed, mostly into Mrs. V’s shoulder and that just sparked an even tighter hug and more shutter clicks and several kicks to a variety of organs when it sounded as if every person in Bryant Park started jumping up and down at the same time.

That might have just been David.

And eventually Mrs. V let go of her and Mary Margaret stopped taking pictures, but only long enough to announce _we’re coming home with you_ and, well, that was that and Emma was on some kind of emotional high that she was sure would, eventually, wear off. She kind of wanted David and Mary Margaret there.

Killian called from the locker room and Scarlet asked if Emma had eaten again and Robin wanted to know if she’d actually sat down at any point, Roland shouting in the background and Henry asking to lift the Cup and Emma’s cheeks were still a bit sore by the time all of them got back uptown.

She didn’t even bother taking her jersey off when she collapsed on the bed, Mary Margaret and David camped out on a small mountain of blankets in the living room.

She thought she was dreaming at first – David’s voice drifting down the hallway and Mary Margaret asking questions when it sounded like the front door swung open. Emma pushed out of bed, grabbing a blanket and knocking several pillows on the floor as she padded towards what sounded like an argument.

She dropped the blanket.

“Killian,” Emma muttered and he didn’t even bother saying anything, just dropped his bag on the floor and pushed past David and Mary Margaret and his left hand landed on her stomach when he tugged her towards him.

One of them probably kissed the other one first, but it didn’t really feel that way and she wasn’t about to argue specifics when he was there and they’d won and he wasn’t supposed to leave St. Louis until the next morning.

There was a schedule. She’d seen it.

Matt Jones kicked his dad’s hand. Hard. Killian practically jumped back, eyes wide and he hadn’t even put a tie on. He was still wearing a Stanley Cup champions shirt.

“Are you still wearing my jersey, Swan?” he asked, just a bit breathless and Mary Margaret was already starting to fold up the blankets on the floor.

Emma shook her head, trying to make sure she was actually awake and she only realized she was gripping his shirt like a vice when Killian winced. Mary Margaret mumbled something about _leaving_ and _call us...later_ and Emma didn’t notice when she and David walked out of the apartment.

“How...how are you here?” Emma asked, tugging on championship merch. “You’re not supposed to be here.”  
  
Killian grinned at her, ducking his head to brush his lips across hers quickly as his thumb moved across her side. “Yeah, I didn’t really care about that,” he said. “I had places to be.”   
  
“Yeah? Wait, did Reese’s and David leave? Is that what David was yelling about?”   
  
“He was told to be more quiet by both me and Mary Margaret, but I wasn’t really interested in explaining myself when I used my own key in my own apartment.”   
  
Emma laughed, head falling against Killian’s shoulder and he couldn’t seem to stop tracing his hands over every inch of her, moving across her shoulders and down her back and he was much better at working out that knot at the base of her spine than she was. “Oh, shit, yeah, right there,” Emma mumbled. “God, that feels good.”   
  
“Did you sit down at all, Swan?”   
  
“David took his job very seriously. He brought a chair.”   
  
“He mentioned he was thinking about doing that. Locksley offered to give him one, but, apparently he just had one?”   
  
Emma nodded, not even objecting when Killian directed her back towards the hallway, toeing out of his shoes and she was, suddenly, exhausted and determined to sleep and he’d come home early.

“They brought chairs for the Pens game last year too,” Emma muttered, eyelids fluttering when Killian pressed his fingers into the small of her back again. “God, you can’t do that, we’re supposed to be celebrating or something. You guys made history. They’ll probably have some kind of exhibit in the Hall of Fame.”

“You know I’ve never actually been to the Hall of Fame.”

Emma didn’t actually remember laying down or Killian, more or less, collapsing on the other side of the bed across from her, but she pulled her head up to stare at him speculatively and the slightly nervous smile on his face. “For real?” she asked and he didn’t really nod, just moved his eyebrows and let his hand drift across the front of her jersey again and they were going to fall asleep on top of the blankets.

“For real,” he echoed, inching forward until their legs were twisted together and he probably knew Mrs. V offered to let her stay in the brownstone. “Seemed kind of self indulgent. And we only played in Toronto a couple of times before Liam got hurt. He wanted to go to some haunted lighthouse instead.”  
  
“Spooky.”   
  
He kissed her and she could _feel_ the smile and hear the laugh and he came home for them – a few hours after history. “And boring as all hell, honestly,” Killian muttered. “There were no ghosts, just Scarlet making ghost-type noises and infuriating Liam and the tour guide.”   
  
Emma made some kind of noise that might have been an actual giggle, burrowing against Killian’s chest and a small pile of pillows. “You want to go?” she asked.

“Where?”  
  
“The Hall of Fame. I mean, not now, obviously, but, you know, eventually. We can carry on some kind of Jones family tradition and make sure Mattie’s a trivia savant too.”

He didn’t answer her immediately, just gaped at her like he was trying to make sure that had really just happened. “Yeah,” Killian said eventually, but it came out like a whisper and a hope and _playing for my kid_ and Emma bit her lip so she didn’t actually dissolve into hormones again. “I would...I would love that, Swan.”

“Deal.”  
  
Matt kicked Killian’s hand and his eyes widened again, the smile on his face was probably enough to get them to Toronto if Merida ever explained the secrets of teleportation to them. “Hey, kid,” Killian said, twisting the blankets underneath him as he moved level to Emma’s stomach and the hormones won when he kissed right where his lips landed. “We won again.”   
  
He kept muttering words against her, fingers tracing absentmindedly over her hip and her back and Emma didn’t realize she’d fallen asleep until she woke up.

And there were, as promised, headlines – analysis of game play and legacy and _history_ and Emma didn’t care about any of them except one story in the _Daily News_ sports section, three pages inside with a headline that left her blinking more than the probable human average.

**A Cup and a Kid: Cap Lifts Blueshirts to NHL Royalty**

She never really read the whole story, just skimmed until she found the post-game quite and the page didn’t quite tear perfectly when Emma ripped the article out of the goddamn newspaper.

_“I’ve had a lot of ups and downs to my career,” Jones said after the Rangers clinched their second-straight Cup on Thursday night. “But this is as good as it’s ever been and it’s got nothing to do with the ice. I got engaged during the Olympics and my_ _fiancée_ _and I are expecting our first kid and it’s…”_

_Jones took a deep breath before continuing, a wry smile on his face when he glanced around the locker room, gaze flitting over teammates and bottles of champagne and someone pressed a championship t-shirt into his hands._

_“They’ve changed everything, you know?” he asked, shrugging and taking a swig of champagne when Scarlet dropped next to him in front of his visitor’s locker. “It’s all worth it now.”_

That article never got framed in the brownstone basement. It sat on Emma's desk instead, flanked, eventually, by family photos and an overpriced picture in front of the hockey Hall of Fame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was a lot longer than I remember it being when I wrote it. Which should honestly just be, like, the subhead of my life at this point. The real-life Rangers are real bad again which means I just want to live in this Rangers world again where they win Stanley Cups and everyone loves each other a ridiculous amount. 
> 
> As always, I can't thank you guys for also caring about this team and I flail over every click, comment and kudos and am still totally down to take any and all ideas for one shots or mini MC's or whatevs. Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	6. Two for Roughing

The whistle sounded impossibly loud.

That was probably because it was more than one whistle.

And none of them would stop making noise.

Killian didn’t really know how it started – six minutes into the second period and playoff hockey was, well, playoff hockey so a little extra physicality was to be expected, but this was a second-round series with Pittsburgh and Game Six at the Garden and they could clinch tonight.

They _should_ clinch tonight.

It would probably be easier to clinch if they all weren’t trying to punch each other. And, in the case of Robin, trying to slash some guys Achilles until he couldn’t skate ever again.

That probably didn’t fall under the parameters of _playoff hockey_. All the whistles were starting to make sense.

And maybe there had been a few words exchanged.

“You’ve got quite a temper on you, don’t you, Locksley?”

The voice was barely audible over the din of the crowd and those goddamn whistles, but Killian knew Robin could hear it as well as he could and the guy – whose name might have actually been Keith– kept smiling.

The Penguins were the worst.

“God, shut up,” Robin yelled back, but the words got a bit muffled when Will tried to hold him back and neither one of them was doing a very good job of staying on their skates.

Phillip was still punching someone.

That whistle sound was going to be ingrained in Killian’s brain for the rest of the postseason.

He wouldn’t argue if it meant there was a lot more left to the postseason – particularly when he knew there was a suite full of people expecting more postseason sitting several sections above the ice.

Keith  _whatever his last name was_  grinned, the shift of his eyebrows obvious even through his visor, and Killian rolled his shoulder back when someone tried to pull him away from the scuffle. “Get off me,” he hissed, not bothering to turn around or glance behind him and the hand was gone as soon as it arrived.

Robin was still trying to break free of Will’s hold, swinging his stick at anything within a two-foot radius.

It took half a second for him to, finally, break free, surging forward, and Killian was only slightly surprised there weren’t actual lasers shooting out of his eyes.

“Aw, fuck,” he muttered under his breath. He couldn’t hear Will, but he assumed he mumbled something along the same lines.

Phillip’s hand collided with some defender’s jaw.

Arthur was going to scream himself hoarse.

Keith, if that was even his name, gave as good as he got – gloves forgotten on the ice and balance questionably steady even when Robin gripped the front of his jersey. There was a bruise blossoming just under his eye, jaw a bit more swollen than any part of his face should have been and Killian hoped someone in that suite a few sections above the ice had taken the questionable number of painfully adorable kids into the hallway.

Henry had probably done it.

He had, at some point, become the de facto leader of the group and was already home from school and, at nineteen years old, almost an adult in his own right – who still refused to wear anything except a Jones jersey in the postseason.

That did absolutely nothing to Killian’s mind or heart or central nervous system.

And that was as much of a lie as any he’d ever told, but he didn’t have much time to worry about that, eyes darting back towards a still-fighting Robin. He’d lost his footing, knees colliding with the ice as Keith topped down with him and the one linesman was going to wear out his goddamn whistle.

“Get him the fuck up,” Arthur screamed from the bench, tie just a bit looser than it had been at the start of the second. “If he gets a major, I’m going to kill him!”  
  
“If he gets a major, Regina is going to kill him,” Will muttered.

Killian rolled his eyes, ignoring the pain in his lower back from whoever had checked him a few minutes before and that seemed like the beginning of everything. He’d been twisting around the net, or at least trying, puck on his stick and Robin in front and there’d been a sliver of space that would have set up another goal.

It would have been a hell of a pass.

It definitely would have impressed all the painfully adorable kids in that suite.

And, like, maybe Emma, but Killian wasn’t still trying to impress his wife every time he stepped onto the ice.

Probably.

That was also a lie.

And he was just about to flick his wrist when the cross-check came, knees slamming into the boards and breath rushing out of him and Killian was going to have to sleep on his stomach for the rest of the week.

It all went to hell after that.

Keith yelled something else at Robin and Killian had never seen him that angry before – at least on the ice – throwing his gloves down without so much as a word or a challenge and landing a left hook that could have earned him his own nickname from Roland.

“She’s probably already come up with sixteen different ways to turn this into an endorsement deal,” Killian said, drawing a sardonic laugh out of Will. “I’m more worried about, Rook, honestly.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s a good point. Aurora’s kind of…”  
  
“Intense?”  
  
“I was going to say super controlling and worried about the image, but, you know, whatever.”  
  
“You know I can hear you, right?” Phillip asked, lifting his gaze away from the Pens player he was punching to cast a sarcastic smile their direction. Killian shrugged.

“I don’t think we were trying to be secretive about it. You about done wrecking that guy’s face or you want to leave your kid with some more lasting memories of violence?”  
  
“Aw shit,” Phillip muttered. He dropped the guys jersey as if it were burning, pushing away with slightly more dejected shoulders and the smile had fallen off his face as quickly as it arrived. “Damn, I didn’t even think about that.”  
  
“That makes you a way worse dad than Cap,” Will grinned and Arthur was still screaming something from the bench.

Probably because Robin and Keith were still on the ice.

Phillip rolled his eyes, wrapping an arm around a Pens player when he tried to move back towards the fight. “Don’t move,” he advised, eyes flitting back towards an expectant Will who did not seem the least bit surprised that they were having this conversation. Arthur sounded like he was having several different coronaries.

“You got something else you want to add, Rook?” Will asked.

Phillip scowled. “I mean not really, you’ve already made me feel like complete crap, so job well done, Scarlet.”  
  
“You got some good hits in. That guy’s probably concussed now.”  
  
“Aw, c’mon.”  
  
“Jeez, Scarlet,” Killian sighed. “Can we not joke about head injuries, please? Like actually consider the words before they’re out of your mouth, huh?”  
  
“That’s not disagreeing with me that Rook isn’t detrimentally affecting his kid by fighting with some Pens asshole, though,” Will pointed out.

“Scarlet. I’m going to get a major if you don’t shut up.”  
  
“Yeah, Gina probably wouldn’t like that either. Although, let’s be honest, you’re easier to get endorsement deals for than Locksley is.”  
  
Killian shook his head, another vaguely sarcastic comment on the tip of his tongue, but he didn’t have time and one of the refs must have gotten a new whistle. This one was, somehow, shriller.

Maybe he got it from Arthur.

Arthur probably just carried spares with him.

“Cap,” the ref said brusquely and Killian nearly lost his edge spinning around. “We’d really like to play a hockey game if your guys are done beating the shit out of each other.”

Will did his best to turn his laughter into a convincing cough, but Phillip wasn’t quite as successful and Killian’s surprised reaction was probably all over the subReddit already. Arthur groaned from the bench.

“Yeah, yeah,” Killian said quickly, shaking his head like that would make any of this more believable or less absurd. “Two for Locksley?”  
  
The ref blinked.

Arthur stopped yelling.

Will probably wouldn’t ever laugh again.

“You’re kidding, right?” the ref asked and he was laughing, which really just seemed unfair.

Killian rolled his shoulders, standing up a bit straighter and digging his heels into the ice. He knew it wasn’t possible to feel their stares on the back of his head or in between the letters on his back, but the world didn’t seem to care about that and Killian knew there were three very concerned people in that suite, staring straight at him and waiting for him to do something.

Except maybe Peggy.

She was two –  _and a half_ – the likelihood of her understanding multiple penalties seemed slim to none.

Mattie and Emma on the other hand…

Killian sighed.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he asked, resting his weight on his stick and Robin’s lower lip was bleeding.

Gina was going to kill them all.

And then probably spin this into some kind of endorsement deal.

God, Lucas was going to yell so loud.

Killian didn’t have much time to think about any of that though – trying to find an inch of space in the penalty box that wasn’t occupied by someone else and Phillip hit him in the ankle with his stick.

There were four of them in the goddamn penalty box.

At least Killian’s bewildered expression would make the back page of _The Post_. They were definitely going to lead with this. They looked ridiculous. And the league rep sitting in the corner looked somewhere close to amused.

Killian sighed again.

“Cap, if you don’t stop sighing I’m going to check you in the spleen right here in this box,” Phillip warned, earning a quiet chuckle out of Sean.

Killian hadn’t even realized Sean had been fighting, but he’d apparently lost complete control of his team and this game and they really needed to clinch tonight if they wanted to avoid being the lead story on several different sports talk shows.

Except SportsCenter.

They’d get buried on SportsCenter behind the NBA no matter what they did.

“You are not really helping your cause for not being incredibly violent here, Rook,” Killian muttered, running an agitated hand through his hair and he couldn’t see into the suite, but he knew where it was, glancing up like staring repentantly at the spot his wife and kids were sitting would, somehow, make any of this better.

Phillip cursed under his breath.

And the league rep clicked his tongue in reproach.

“You guys want to relax?” Sean asked, nodding in the direction of the suite and the clipboard Killian had never really understood the purpose of. “And does anyone want to tell me what the hell is going on?”  
  
“Do you not know?”  
  
“Do you, Cap?”  
  
“I know that you got two for slashing and now you’re telling me that you’re not aware of that?”  
  
“Ok, that’s not what I said at all,” Sean groaned. “I am asking how the fight started, exactly. Aside from that guy cross-checking you. But it’s the second round, usually they let that shit go.”  
  
“Yeah, tell that to my spine,” Killian muttered.

Phillip’s laugh was more a snicker than anything else, but he was almost smiling when Killian turned to glare at them, the sound of their sticks hitting against each other nearly as loud as the whistles has been. “I think that’s a sign you’re old, Cap,” Phillip said. “And Sean’s slash, your two for roughing, my two for two for interference and Locksley’s five for fighting all came because that guy was a dick.”  
  
Killian wished he could think of something to do besides sighing.

Robin was staring at his skates.

“Locksley,” Killian said, doing his best to keep his voice sharp and intent and he knew it didn’t work when Robin’s eyebrows jumped up his forehead.

“I’m not Matt, Cap, you don’t get to try and discipline me. It’s not going to work.”  
  
“I’m not.”  
  
“Cap.”  
  
“Cap,” Phillip repeated and, at least that time, Killian rolled his eyes instead of sighing.

“You seriously got an interference? How did that even happen?”  
  
“Oh before the play. Like, at least a solid twenty seconds before that Traval guy started saying shit to Locksley. He probably should have gotten a misconduct, actually, but you know, playoff hockey or whatever.”  
  
“Whatever,” Killian echoed. Robin was rocking between his skates, balancing his weight and he couldn’t seem to stop moving his tongue – the point of it pressing against either side of his cheeks and swiping over the front of his teeth and in between his lips. “What’d he say, Locksley?”

Robin exhaled, but it sounded a bit like a scoff and they were going to run out of time before they got any kind of answer.

Killian’s eyes darted back towards the ice when he heard the crowd erupt, not entirely sure, at first, if they were cheering or cheering, but Hudsill, the new goalie the Rangers had drafted two years before, made a save and it sounded like the entire Garden was shaking.

Five-on-three hockey in the playoffs was not good for anyone’s blood pressure.

“Hell, yeah, Hudsie,” Phillip yelled, rapping his glove-less hand on the penalty box door and Killian barely paid any attention to the league rep. He was way too busy yelling too.

And he almost didn’t hear Robin.

“He said some shit about the kids.”  
  
Phillip’s hand fell back to his side like an anvil, Sean’s eyes going wide and Killian’s mouth going dry – even the league rep looked a little stunned. Robin shrugged slightly, but his grip on his stick was tight enough that his knuckles had gone white.

“Kids,” Killian said, Robin rolling his eyes when he kept repeating words. “I’m just trying to understand what the hell you’re talking about.”  
  
“That’s what I thought I heard,” Phillip mumbled. “God, what a dick.”  
  
Robin hummed in agreement, lips pressed together and they’d clearly all been wrong before because they’d forgotten about Ariel and she was going to be more pissed off than anyone that they’d wasted five minutes of the postseason fighting.

Killian’s hand hurt like hell.

And his back.

God, maybe he was old.

“A total dick,” Robin agreed. “I’m pretty sure he was trying to goad Scarlet at first, but then Cap got checked and that was already fucked up and Traval started talking some shit about Rol not making the U15 cut--”  
  
“--Wait, what?” Killian balked and the league rep wasn’t even trying to mask his eavesdropping. He was straight up listening at this point. “How does he know that?”  
  
“Cap, everyone knows that. It’s...it’s a small community and a gossipy one, and I know I shouldn’t have let it get to me, but it did. Rol’s been upset for a month. Barely comes out of his room and wasn’t even excited about Henry coming back for the series and…”  
  
He was still talking, but Killian couldn’t quite hear over the ringing in his ears and it kind of felt like his tongue was expanding at the same time his lungs were shrinking, everything tightening until he was certain the only thing he’d ever feel again was the deep-seated desire to punch Keith Traval in the face.

“Cap,” Sean said cautiously and Killian nearly stepped on Phillip when he jerked back. There was not enough room in the box for four players – apparently determined to defend an entire squadron of children and the only reason Rol hadn’t made the cut for the national team was because he’d only just turned fourteen and he might have been big for his age, but he wasn’t all that great at hitting and this was an unmitigated disaster.

They were all a bunch of shit role models.

And Scarlet hadn’t gotten a penalty.

They were never going to hear the end of that.

“I’m probably going to kill him,” Killian warned, not directing the statement at anyone, but Robin’s lips quirked slightly and he was trying not to smile.

“I kind of already did."  
  
“Yeah, understandable. God, I hope you broke his jaw.”  
  
“That’d get me a misconduct.”  
  
Killian hummed, dimly aware of the thirty seconds left in his penalty and they were still, somehow, winning this game. “Killing him would probably do that too, huh?”  
  
“Probably.”

“He say anything else?”  
  
“If I tell you that, you’re going to try to take him out at the ankles,” Robin said and it sounded like the league rep actually chuckled. “You want to get a very angry phone call later?”  
  
“They’re going to call no matter what,” Killian reasoned. “El’s got some very specific thoughts on how you’re supposed to move your shoulder when you punch someone so you don’t do damage to your rotator cuff.”  
  
“God, why does she know that?”  
  
“Because Banana spends a lot of time talking to Red and I think Belle found some kind of study some time that Red likes to source and bring up in conversation.”  
  
“It’s weird that they’re doing that.”  
  
Killian arched an eyebrow. “Is it? Seems pretty par for the course.”  
  
“That was the worst attempt at a Vankald cliché I’ve ever heard,” Robin laughed. This conversation was very strange. And probably not appropriate for the penalty box. Killian really needed to put his gloves back on. “Forget El and Anna calling you. I’m going to call them and tell them what a disappointment you are.”  
  
“And old,” Phillip added, moving into the tiny bit of space behind Killian and the Pens goalie was tapping his stick on the other end of the ice. “Don’t forget that part. He’s going to complain about that cross-check all night.”  
  
“It hurt,” Killian yelled. “When my back is bruised to fuck you guys are all going to feel bad.”  
  
“Sure it did, Cap. Sure it did. Let’s not pretend like not you’re going to complain to Emma so you guys can spend at least five minutes making out in the back corner of the restaurant after this game is over.”

“God, that was so many double negatives.”  
  
The league rep laughed again, somehow leaning around all of them to swing the door open and Killian wasn’t sure if he was actually bobbing on his skates or just chock-full of several dozen emotions and it might have been all at once because his eyes definitely flitted towards the team suite before his skates hit the ice.

“Or,” Robin called, sinking back onto the bench with his stick resting on his knee. “You know, you guys could just score another goal!”

“It’s not a bad plan,” Will yelled. He was still in the zone, puck on his stick and he looked exhausted because, honestly, five-on-three at any time was the absolute worst, but his wrists twisted and Killian was already moving.

It was instinct.

Plus maybe a bit of age or experience. Whatever. And since he couldn’t get another penalty without possibly affecting his kids’ psyche for the rest of their lives, scoring a goal after a game-changing penalty kill seemed like the next best option.

And the Pens were trying to change – but it was the second period and it was a long change and there was more than enough open ice in front of Killian that he didn’t really have to make much of a move.

He did anyway.

He juked, forehand to backhand and these moments were just a little bit more fun when the goalie, quite clearly, lost sight of the puck, eyes darting across the ice like he was trying to find a needle in an ice-covered haystack.

That was a better cliché.

Maybe he’d call Elsa later. Or just tell Mr. and Mrs. V – who were both in that same team suite and probably wearing the number twenty and making sure both of his kids didn’t notice him fighting. Emma was probably working.

And Killian was showing off for Emma.

Always. Indefinitely. Through several different contracts and a whole slew of endorsements and the closest Pens defender was half a step away when Killian pulled his stick back.

The light went off.

He knew it would, but even thinking that felt a little _too_ confident, particularly after a god-awful string of penalties that, at this point, would probably be a sidebar in _The Post_ ’s game story.

The Garden erupted again, cheers and shouts and Killian spun on his skates, his own cry on his lips when he threw his hands out, stick still gripped tightly in his right hand.

“You might want to watch the backhand next time,” Killian said, muttering the words just loud enough that the Pittsburgh goalie could hear him before he jumped against the boards, a small hoard of fans pressed there and beating against the glass and the goddamn _Post_ was going to have so many options for its backpage, it was almost absurd.

They won.

And Killian kind of knew that was going to happen too.

“I’m just pointing it out,” Will said, hours and one vaguely tense post-game that saw Ruby yell at several different reporters while trying to push one local cameraman out of the locker room, later. “You know, for posterity, or something.”  
  
“Or something,” Emma muttered. She lifted her eyebrows when Will tried to argue and maybe Killian should be taking leadership classes with her because the expression resulted in silence and an only slightly disgruntled NHL defenseman in front of them.

An NHL defenseman who was desperately trying to make sure everyone in the great Tri-State area knew _he_ hadn’t gotten a penalty.

“That’s kind of rude, Em,” Will said, already holding up his hands as if he were admitting defeat before she could claim it. “This is a monumental occasion.”  
  
“I think that’s just a sign that you’re usually the one drawing penalty minutes.”

“Exactly!”  
  
“And that’s supposed to be some kind of good thing?”  
  
Will shrugged, waving his hands through the air, and Killian couldn’t quite laugh without some kind of pain shooting through his side, but Emma had her head on his shoulder and their kids were playing makeshift hockey a few feet away and they’d won.

And he was really proud of that goal.

“He’s just trying to get several different endorsement deals out of Gina,” Killian mumbled, mostly into Emma’s hair. Will flipped him off. “Scarlet, my kids are here.”

“Trust me, they do not care what I’m doing at all,” Will promised. “I’m pretty convinced Dr. J is trying to check Rol into several different tables. They’ve appointed Henry as referee.”  
  
“Somehow that doesn’t make me feel much better.”  
  
“Yeah, it probably shouldn’t,” Will laughed, leaning around both Killian and Emma to grab a plate of something off the bar. “But Locksley’s over there and being used a jungle gym for Pegs so she’ll probably just get them all to do her bidding sooner or later.”  
  
“Wait, what?”  
  
“Cap, did you not know where your kids were?”

Killian glared at him, but Will just snapped his teeth on a slightly overcooked French fry in response. Emma sighed. “Go back to talking about how great it was that you didn’t get a penalty,” she suggested. “At least then you were tolerable.”  
  
‘Wow, Em. That was incredibly harsh. I’m almost hurt.”  
  
“Almost?”  
  
“He’s got thick skin,” Killian mumbled. “And an even thicker head. He was making concussion jokes before.”  
  
“Scarlet do you want me to punch you in the ribs?” Emma asked pointedly and it probably shouldn’t have been attractive to hear his wife threaten his teammate, but Will’s eyes widened slightly and she didn’t blink and Killian was pressing his lips to her temple before he’d considered any other option.

He wasn’t convinced there was one.

Will groaned. “God, it’s gross how into each other you two still are. It’s been several lifetimes.”  
  
“Do you know how time works?”

“Seriously, Cap I can’t keep flipping you off all night, Belle’s going to get mad if she sees and A’ll yell at me. Don’t make that happen.”  
  
“Somehow that doesn’t seem like it’d be my fault.”  
  
“See, you think that, but Locksley was defending your honor before and--”  
  
He cut himself off, eyes, somehow, going even wider and Emma clicked her tongue in frustration. “Make sure you let A know that you’ll need some more physical therapy,” she said, glaring several metaphorical daggers at Will. “Because I’m seriously going to kick you until you can’t stand up.”

“God, you are incredibly violent tonight,” Will muttered, but he hadn’t actually objected to the threat and the ringing was back in Killian’s ears. He kind of wished he was being used as a human jungle gym if only to have something to redirect all that energy too.

Emma lifted her head off his shoulder.

“How did you find out?” Will pressed. “When did you find out?”

“Find what out?” Killian asked, but Will waved a dismissive hand in his face, eyes not moving away from Emma’s. She was biting her lip.

“There’s talk about some fines,” she answered after a few strained moments and Will cursed, several different increasingly inventive sentences, under his breath. “No, no, there’s a happy ending to this. Kind of.”  
  
Will stopped cursing. “Kind of?”

“I mean, you know Ruby. Zelena heard some mumblings from league reps and four guys in the box is…”  
  
“Insane?”  
  
“Exactly,” Emma nodded. “Plus there’s all that history with Pittsburgh and Traval has plenty of priors so Ruby went to talk to Locksley before post. I can’t believe you didn’t notice that.” She twisted, glancing expectantly towards Killian and it was a very specific challenge not to kiss her again. “How did you not notice?”  
  
“I was kind of busy, Swan.”  
  
“He’s fishing for compliments on that goal,” Will said knowingly, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“It was a really good goal,” Emma said and they were still far too into each other because Killian’s heart hammered against his chest and he knew he was grinning like an absolute idiot, but her hand had found its way to the front of his shirt, the laces around her wrist falling down her forearm.  
  
He tugged them back up.

“Show off,” Will mumbled and Killian hummed in response. “Keep telling your story, Em.”

She didn’t move her hand. “Anyway, Rubes talked to Robin, Robin told her what happened, Ruby got pissed off all over again, felt it was her moral obligation to defend, but didn’t want to tell me because then I’d probably have broken into the visitor’s locker room or something.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s fair.”  
  
“You know,” Killian said. “None of this is exactly telling me what happened or why Locksley was defending my honor. That guy said shit about Rol, right?”

Will ignored him. “But how did you find out then?”  
  
“Reese’s,” Emma winced, nodding in the direction of Mary Margaret. She was standing in front of a booth, David sitting down with a kid draped over his chest and all of them were wearing team-branded, matching looks of only recently-discarded annoyance on their faces.

Except the kid.

Leo was asleep.

“Ruby needed to tell someone apparently,” Emma continued. “And I have no idea why she told Reese’s, but it probably had something to do with being the only one who didn’t have access to the visitor’s locker room. I’m surprised A didn’t try to break down the door.”  
  
“I’m not convinced she didn’t,” Will countered.

Killian sighed, which was becoming some kind of de facto noise at that point, but Emma tugged lightly on his shirt and her eyes were a bit glossier than normal when he glanced at her. “That Traval guy? He wasn’t just talking about Rol. It started that way, mostly to get a rise out of Robin, but he told Rubes it was like he was going down a list. He got to you and Mattie and something about fatherhood slowing you down, which makes your goal even more impressive honestly and--”  
  
She ran out of oxygen.

Killian wasn’t sure he knew what oxygen was anymore.

“He’s a dick, Cap,” Will muttered, sounding as if he’d already come up with several different ways to slash the guy and make it look like an accident. “It’s a good thing we clinched tonight because I definitely would have killed him during a Game Seven.”  
  
“Then you would have gotten fined,” Killian said.

“Would have been worth it.”

Killian hummed, turning back towards Emma and she was going to do permanent damage to her lower lip if she kept tugging on it like that. “What else?” he asked.

“It’s weird that you know that there’s more.”  
  
“Swan, give me some credit, love, please. You didn’t even finish your sentence.”  
  
“That’s because I kind of wanted to kill that guy too,” she admitted. “And I get kind of...God, what’s another word for skittish because that just sounds like a wounded animal or something.”

“Nervous?”  
  
“Yeah, that’s probably a good one.”  
  
“About?” Killian asked, but he had a pretty good idea about that too and he’d had his suspicions about the fight from the very beginning. There had to be a reason Robin tried to jump Traval the second time.

He was totally going to pay Robin’s fine.

Or make Gina get him another endorsement deal. Or, like, a TV gig.

“You fighting,” Emma whispered. “Or trying to fight.”  
  
“I landed several different punches.”  
  
“Yeah and I freaked about every single one. Ask Reese’s. It was almost embarrassing. There was a questionable amount of gasping and I think I actually got some pretty good air on my jump when you went into the boards. And--”

Killian didn’t let her finish.

He probably should have – but they were in the back corner of the restaurant and Locksley had defended his honor and Emma had started tugging on her laces at some point and he could just make out his kids’ laughter in the background.

And, well, they won.

So, really, it all kind of made sense.

Emma pressed up on her toes, slinging one arm around his neck, with her other palm against his chest and she kept holding onto the front of his shirt, like she was trying to make sure they were occupying the same few inches of space. That wasn’t necessarily the worst thing in the world. That might have been the best thing in the world.

He could still feel her smile when she kissed back, fingers finding their way into the hair at the nape of his neck and the dress she was wearing was only slightly frustrating – but Killian was almost content to brush his hand along the curve of her spine, particularly when she seemed to sigh against him.

They were stupid into each other.

Still. Always. Indefinitely. Several other adverbs.

Killian nipped at her lower lip, getting the reaction he’d been hoping for, something that was a mix between a gasp and a groan and Emma’s eyes were still closed when he pulled back.

“Oh that’s cheating,” Emma muttered. “It was a crazy good goal. I think Mattie’s going to try and practice that move for the rest of his life.”  
  
“Even if he didn’t have to juke at all,” Will added. He’d moved at some point, sitting several stools away from them with another plate of French fries and something that looked suspiciously like the alcohol they weren’t supposed to be drinking in the middle of a playoff run. “Rook,” he called, Phillip’s answering _what_ ricocheting off the walls of the restaurant. “You won, what kind of coffee do you want tomorrow?”  
  
Killian groaned – from both this team’s propensity for making bets and how much his back ached when he slumped against Emma. She kissed the top of his head. “What the hell are you talking about, Scarlet?” he asked.

“Rook was under impression that you and Emma were going to spend at least part of your night making out in the back of the restaurant,” Will answered through a mouthful of fries and he didn’t flinch when a two – _and a half_ – year old whirlwind of hair and Rangers branded apparel crashed into his thigh.

He hauled Peggy up, resting his chin on the top of her head and Killian wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be charmed or not. “But,” Will continued. “I was in your corner, Cap. And yours too, I guess, Em, since you were also part of the makeout.”  
  
“Yuh huh,” she muttered. “You want to keep going or…”  
  
“I mean, Cap’s going to be pissed if I don’t. Ah, sorry, Pegs.”

Peggy didn’t seem particularly put out by the mistake, far too interested in fried foods and various forms of potatoes and Will winced when she stood up on his thighs. He wrapped an arm around her waist to make sure she didn’t fall over.

“Finish the story, Scarlet,” Killian said and that felt a bit more like a command, but he was definitely losing some of his locker-room edge and it might have been the whole kid thing. He was not all that upset about it – especially when another blur of human being collided with his hip as hard as if he were being checked into the boards.

“Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad,” Matt chanted, yanking on the hem of his shirt and the side of his shirt and Killian could just barely make out Emma’s quiet _you’re going to rip it, kid_. “We have to practice checking!”  
  
Killian’s head jerked up, narrowing his eyes at Will, who couldn’t hold up his hands when he was trying to make sure Peggy stayed balanced. “This was not my doing, Cap,” Will said quickly. “He was with Locksley and Rook. I was the one promising everyone that you weren’t going to make out with your wife in the back corners of restaurants.”  
  
“I mean we weren’t really in the corner,” Emma reasoned. Phillip cackled from somewhere. “God, Rook, enough, you’re going to wake up, Leo.”  
  
“Too late,” David said, joining the conversation with a squirming three-year-old somehow staying in his grip. “So, job well done, everyone. The punching and the making out and the betting on all of it. We’re all a bunch of a very responsible adults here. We should probably teach Matt how to check just to round it all out.”  
  
“Jeez, Sergeant.”  
  
“He’s tired,” Mary Margaret reasoned. “And he was trying to get A to let him into the visitor’s locker room while we were waiting on you guys to finish post. That took up a lot of his energy.”

“God, Pittsburgh is the worst team in the world.”  
  
“Eh,” Ariel objected from behind the counter and Killian had no idea she’d been there. “I mean LA was pretty awful, we just don’t see them as often so you know...by comparison.”  
  
Emma nodded in agreement, pulling Matt closer to her side and Killian had several different theories for that, but he wasn’t concussed and wasn’t really injured, aside from that one bruise that was probably going to linger through the entire Conference Finals and maybe if they got the kids home relatively soon they could make out in a real bed for awhile.

“Can we get back to the terms of the bets, please?” Phillip asked. He had one arm slung around Roland’s shoulders, a stick in his other hand. Kristoff was going to kill all of them. “I want to make sure Scarlet gets my order right before we get back to instruction.”  
  
“Instruction?” Killian repeated and he was getting a little tired of that. Phillip’s smile widened.

“Locksley wasn’t kidding about calling Liam and El. He’s been on the phone with Liam for the last ten minutes. The two of them have been teaching Matt how to properly faceoff and check. It’s been almost as good as knowing that I'm getting free coffee tomorrow.”

“Oh my God.”  
  
“Nah, nah, it’s really almost responsible, Cap. They’ve got a whole set of rules and everything. Scarlet, you got a pen? Because this is going to get complex.”

“Dad,” Matt yelled again, climbing onto the closest stool and several different adults moved to keep him steady when he clamored onto the top.

“We don’t even have to worry about checking,” Emma mumbled. “He’s going to jump off restaurant furniture before we can get him on the ice.”

“Can we go on the ice? Tonight? Tomorrow? Can I come to practice?”  
  
Killian laughed under his breath, wrapping both his hands around Matt’s ankles. “I’ve only got film tomorrow, kid. And we’ve got to wait until the other series ends, right?”  
  
“No practice?”  
  
“Some practice, just not anything that’s going to be very exciting for you.”  
  
“So we can check?”  
  
“I’m going to murder your brother too,” Emma whispered, Killian nodding as soon as the words were out of his mouth. “Mattie” she said. “You can’t check anyone right now, ok? Let’s avoid that. Or ever. Ever seems better, right?”  
  
“He’s got to check some people eventually, Em,” Will argued and people kept appearing out of nowhere, because Belle was next to him suddenly, a reproachful look on her face that seemed to match up perfectly with the way Ariel smacked at the back of his shoulder. “God, A, relax,” he hissed. “I was in a fight tonight.”  
  
“And we’re doing something to fix that,” Robin said, joining the conversation with a phone in his hand and only a little lingering tension in the shift of his shoulders.

“Kind of,” Roland muttered traitorously. “Matt’s still having some trouble with the whole not hitting me in the calves thing.” Killian groaned, reaching blindly behind him for a stool, while Emma and Regina tried to figure out if Roland was bruised. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said quickly. “Your kid’s just got a crazy slap shot, Hook.”

And, really, he probably shouldn’t have been proud of that, but it had been a night for weird and slightly out-of-place feelings and Killian only just noticed the several tables pushed against the walls at the front of the restaurant.

God, maybe he should be paying for something for Eric too.

“I’m sure you guys are going to put all of that back, later, right?” Ariel asked archly, but there was a laugh from the phone in Robin’s hand and she was trying very hard to glare across the country towards Colorado. “Something to add, Liam?”

Killian couldn’t see him, but he was sure his brother shook his head and he was probably doing that stupid thing with his eyes – the same way he would when he got called for a roughing penalty and tried to deny he’d even lifted his stick.

It felt almost poetic that Liam was helping teach Matt how to check.

“Not a thing, A,” Liam promised. “Just...are there any marks on your table?”  
  
“That’s a thing,” Will pointed and someone laughed in the background in Colorado. Several different people in the restaurant shouted _Hey, El_ at the phone. She probably waved, if the answering smile on Will’s face was any indication. “I’m just saying, leader, totally a thing. And you don’t know how to check anyone, let’s leave that to the professionals, huh?”  
  
“Did you even get a penalty tonight?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
“Liam, please stop advocating getting penalties,” Ruby said, from the doorway, a wide smile on her face as well and Killian briefly marveled at her apparent wolf-like hearing abilities. “Also, in case anyone was wondering, I totally saved the day. You’re welcome in advance. Is there food?”  
  
“This is a restaurant, Lucas,” Killian muttered.

“Wow, you are hysterical, Cap. You make out with Emma in the back corner of said restaurant yet?”  
  
“See,” Phillip shouted. “I told you it was the default setting, Scarlet.”  
  
“Ok, we are not robots,” Emma growled, but Ruby’s heels were already moving towards the lot of them and Liam might have fallen out of his chair several thousand miles away. Matt was still trying to get Killian to check something. “What did you do, Rubes?”  
  
“Well, I’m assuming M’s already told you because I know she can’t keep secrets and--”  
  
“David was trying to break into the visitor’s locker room,” Mary Margaret interrupted. Ruby’s eyes widened. “Yeah, you want to keep throwing out insults?”  
  
Killian tried to bite back his laugh, but no one else seemed able to and Will was trying very hard not to choke when Peggy threw her arms around his neck. There was hair in his face.

Ruby twisted her lips, crossing her arms slightly and rocker her weight back on her feet. “Did he get in?”  
  
“That’s your follow-up?” Emma balked.

“It’d be very easy for the NYPD to make that all go away, right? I mean, you’re a very fancy officer now, right? Get Olivia Benson on the case or something.”  
  
“Those were not the words you were looking for,” David said. He was smiling anyway. “But, no, I didn't. A seemed very certain that it was a bad idea and after a few minutes of breathing exercises, I agreed. Plus we won and if Liam and Robin are going to teach Matt how to check, then that seems almost acceptable.”

“And don’t forget how to win faceoffs,” Liam added, working a not-so-quiet sigh out of Elsa. “That’s really the important part because, contrary to popular belief, I am not here to advocate for on-ice violence.”  
  
“Yeah, tell that to most of my childhood,” Killian muttered.

“There’s a reason you took that hit so well tonight.”  
  
“Are you ok, KJ?” Elsa asked and he still couldn’t see the phone screen, but Killian nodded anyway. “No torn ACLs?”  
  
“Why would that happen?”  
  
“That’s possible, actually,” Ariel added, wincing when she noticed the slightly stricken look on Emma’s face. “Unlikely though. So you know...plus…”  
  
“Please stop talking,” Emma said.

“Yeah, that’s fair.”  
  
“Does no one want to know how I saved the day?” Ruby asked, frustration creeping into the question and there were several mumbled versions of _sorry Lucas_ from the peanut gallery.

“Go ahead, Rubes,” Mary Margaret said and Killian glanced at Emma, lips pulled tightly behind her teeth so she didn’t laugh.

“You are a paragon of responsibility, M’s. Anyway. Zelena was pissed…” She paused for a second, eyes flitting across the younger members of her audience, but none of them seemed to notice anything out of sorts. “Can we get away with that now? If it’s not going to be a thing, anymore?”  
  
“God, Lucas, get on with the story,” Robin groaned. He huffed out a dramatic exhale, Regina’s hand on his shoulder and Roland kept staring at the ceiling.

“You alright, mate?” Killian asked, but he had a few more theories and Mary Margaret was very bad at keeping secrets or talking softly.

Roland nodded. “Fine. Why isn’t Dad getting fined, Rubes?”  
  
“Because Zelena was crazy mad when she found out what really happened, nearly melted or something equally dramatic,” Ruby answered. “From me, by the way. She found out what really happened from me, because Locksley was going to be some kind of martyr.” She lifted her eyebrows accusingly in Robin’s direction, but he shook his head deftly and Killian thought he saw Regina’s hand tighten.

“Anyway,” Ruby continued. “Zelena called someone from the league who called someone else and we’re just going to...ignore it.”  
  
“Ignore it,” Robin repeated skeptically.

“I mean they can’t fine him, Locksley. Not on hearsay and a reprimand for trash talk, but they’re not going to fine you and you won’t be suspended for the next round.”

Roland’s eyes bugged and Robin hissed when Regina’s hand gripped his shoulder a bit harder than necessary. Emma’s head snapped around, expression incredulous when she gaped at Killian and he hadn’t even considered a suspension.

“Was it close?” Regina asked, but there was a shake to her voice that didn’t ever belong there. Killian groaned when Matt leapt towards him – he caught him anyway.

Ruby shook her head. “Not really.”  
  
“That’s not all that comforting.”  
  
“He did punch that guy a lot.”

Regina rolled her eyes, a sound falling out of Roland that wasn’t quite a sigh, but not quite a groan either and Killian tried to shift Matt enough that he could wrap an arm around a different set of shoulders.

It ended with a knee in one of his organs and a very specific expression when he, finally, saw Elsa on Will’s phone screen.

“He’s fine, KJ,” Elsa said, but her eyes darted towards the teenager tucked against his side. “Right, Rol?”  
  
“Yeah,” he muttered. “If Mattie didn’t break my ankle with his wrist shot.”

“It’s a crazy good wrist shot for a six-year-old, Killian,” Liam added. "Almost six, whatever."

Will cackled, working a frustrated _quiet, Uncle Will_ out of the bundle of human hanging off his side. “I’m sorry, Peg, I’m sorry,” he muttered through a mouthful of hair. “Tell me something, leader, is that your professional opinion as a scout, a former NHL player or are you just trying to get bonus points for being Dr. J’s favorite?”  
  
“I’m sorry, what?”  
  
“Don’t question it,” Emma advised. “Mattie, did you really shoot at Roland?”  
  
Matt’s leg jerked at the sound of his name – ending with another knee in a different internal organ for Killian. “He was playing goalie, Mom! And I won the faceoff, so I got to take the shot.”

“Those are the rules, Emma,” Liam said. “They’re very serious rules for a very serious competition.”  
  
“That so?”  
  
“Why does it feel like this competition isn’t really between mini-Jones and Rol?” Ruby asked. She pressed her tongue to the corner of her mouth, turning expectantly towards an actual blushing Robin Locksley.

“It’s not like that, Lucas.”  
  
“It’s a little like that,” Elsa corrected. “You need to put a stop to this, KJ. They’re arguing over faceoff technique and planning things for the offseason already. It’s intense.”

“I mean if he’s going to play center, he needs to learn from the best,” Liam shouted. “That’s just practical.”  
  
“And presumptuous,” Robin mumbled. “There are new rules, Jones. They’re cutting down on cheating before puck drop.”  
  
“Oh, it’s weird when there’s two of you with the same last name,” Emma laughed, turning on Killian with a smile on her face and her hand on Matt’s back.

“I’m going to assume you’re able to keep track of the differences, Swan.”  
  
“I mean I’m not opposed to making out some more to ensure I know who’s who.”  
  
“Is this weird?”  
  
“A little,” she admitted, but she was still smiling. “But in an enjoyable kind of way. And we should probably just focus on getting you to stop first, huh, Mattie?”  
  
“It’s a work in progress, love,” Killian promised. “He’s just naturally fast. Genetics or whatever.”  
  
“Yeah, that sounded super legit.”  
  
“Guys, seriously,” Will groaned and Killian nearly dropped Matt in surprise. “Did you hear any of the plan or the bet?”  
  
“No,” Killian said. “And I really don’t care.”  
  
“God, that is so disappointing.”  
  
“He was flirting,” Elsa rationalized. “With his own wife. Which is you know...kind of nice, actually. When you think about it.”  
  
Killian shook his head. “Sounding a little Banana-esque over there, El.”  
  
“I’m going to tell her you said that.”

“She’s going to be way too busy trying to get Kristoff to calm down because we all messed up our gloves with a questionable amount of fighting and honor defense.”  
  
Robin tensed and it really couldn’t have been good for his eyes to keep widening to that size. “Oh, yeah,” he muttered. “So...that guy was kind of an asshole. Sorry, Pegs.”

“Yeah, so I heard. I was planning on paying your fine, though, so, you know, I think we’re almost even?”

Roland wasn’t even trying to mask his smile, moving back towards the mock rink at the front of the restaurant, and it only took a half a second for Matt to elbow, knee and kick Killian’s left leg before he was racing after as well.

“I think we’re even,” Robin agreed. “But I wouldn’t say no to having my honor defended as well at some point, just to know you’re still putting the work into the relationship.”  
  
Killian laughed, head thrown back when Emma shook against him and, just like that, the tension of a series-clinching, fight-filled Game Six was forgotten.

They won.

“Is no one going to offer me a celebratory drink for saving the day?” Ruby asked. “Because that’s really...nonsense.”  
  
“Nice save, Lucas.”  
  
“Shut up, Cap. Someone provide me with champagne. I didn’t get any in the locker room while I was trying to put out metaphorical fires.”

They all got celebratory champagne eventually – Will’s phone stuffed in David’s jacket pocket because they’d avoided one fine already, _seriously Scarlet_ – and it only took a few moments to realize what the plan and the bet were.

Faceoffs.

Liam gave Matt instructions and Robin gave Roland his own tips and Killian kept biting his lip when Liam was only _very_ wrong because there really were new rules and Matt might win in a restaurant surrounded by professional hockey players, but a referee wouldn’t let that happen and--  
  
“I need you to take, at least, eight-hundred deep breaths,” Emma muttered, twisting until she was standing in front of Killian with both hands on his shoulders and one side of her mouth tugged up. “Your freaking me out and I’ve been through the whole spectrum of that already tonight.”

“I’m sorry, love. That wasn’t the goal.”  
  
“Was that supposed to be a joke?”  
  
“No, just humor on the fly.”  
  
She hummed, pressing up on her toes so she could brush her fingers over the back of his neck and Killian wasn’t entirely in control of his body when his eyes fluttered shut. “That’s almost impressive, Jones,” Emma grinned, pressing her lips to the edge of his mouth and they were very, very good at flirting. Even with the marriage certificate. Especially with the marriage certificate. “And I get it. It’s an occupational hazard, but I am kind of sort of super into you so I’m going to worry by default.”

“Is it weird to tell you that I appreciate that?”  
  
“Not any weirder than humor by default and bad dad jokes.”  
  
“Ah, it kind of was, wasn’t it?” Killian asked, but he couldn’t stop the smile from landing on his face and Emma’s nose scrunched when she nodded in response. “I love you a lot, you know that?”  
  
“I had heard some rumors about that. A sidebar, maybe.”  
  
“That’s got to be the penalty box thing, right? Lead with the goal.”  
  
“You are really proud of that goal.”  
  
Killian shrugged, but he absolutely was and Emma totally knew and he bent his knees as soon as he heard the patter of feet rushing towards him. He got hair in his mouth. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” Peggy shouted, wrapping her arms around his neck tightly and maybe they should have been concerned about her speed as well. She was very quick on her feet.

“What, what, what?”  
  
“I wanna score too!”

Emma laughed softly, squeezing her eyes closed like she was trying to memorize the moment and they were all a bunch of over-competitive weridos.

“You don’t have a stick, little love,” Killian said. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?”  
  
“Yeah, good luck with that,” Emma muttered. “Someone else was even more worried than I was about fighting and hitting.”

Killian clicked his tongue, pulling back to find a pair of very wide eyes and unruly hair and Peggy looked exhausted, but she was as stubborn as Emma. He didn’t say that out loud. “I’m fine, sweetheart,” he promised. “Nothing broken.”  
  
“And only slightly swollen,” Ariel muttered from a few feet away. She was sitting cross legged on top of a table, a pad of paper in one hand and a pen in the other, likely keeping score for a bet Killian still didn’t know the stakes of.

“Seriously?” Emma asked sharply.

“Thanks, Red,” Killian growled, but she shrugged in response and Matt won another faceoff. The right way, that time. “I’m fine, Swan. Seriously. There’s a stick-shaped bruise on my back, that’s all. And my hand is sore, but that’s normal.”

She didn’t say anything, just twisted her lips slightly and her eyes traced over him – like she was looking for the lie or the telltale contradiction and no one had actually hit him in the face.  
  
“Fine,” he repeated, ducking his head to catch her lips quickly and he could almost feel her relax. Until the two –  _and a half_ – year old in his arms objected to be squished.

Loudly.

“Sorry, babe,” Emma muttered, tickingling Peggy’s stomach until the shouts turned to laughs and Mary Margaret might have taken a picture.

Killian kind of hoped she did.

“Ok, ok, we have to come up with a rule for this,” Robin said, pulling their attention away from potential adorable family moments documented for posterity. "This is how you're supposed to check, kid."

“You guys just started punching,” Matt argued.

Emma sighed, burying her head in Killian’s shoulder. “Oh my God. We’ve created a monster. A fight first, set a penalty minutes record monster.”

“No, no, no,” Killian objected, but Matt was still coming up with counter points and Elsa was probably proud of his technique. She was still smiling on the phone screen. “We’re going to fix this, Swan. Parents of the year, every year forever and ever.”  
  
“Good slogan.”  
  
“That was another spur of the moment thing.”  
  
“You are on a roll, Cap.”

He laughed, pressing a kiss to the top of her hair before they moved their way across the restaurant and Matt was bouncing the puck on the blade of his stick. “Hitting is part of hockey, right?” he asked and Liam winced in Colorado.

“Sorry, little brother,” he muttered when he noticed Killian and the glare that was probably etched on his face at that point. “It’s a small part, Matt. A very small part and if you’re going to check you’ve got to get under the shoulder blades otherwise you're going to--”  
  
“Oh my God, Liam, shut up,” Emma hissed at the same time Elsa started cursing in Norwegian. Matt’s eyes widened at that as well.

A very curious, incredibly competitive monster.

“Kid,” Killian said, sharply and the puck fell off Matt’s stick. “Listen to me, ok? The only time you can hit anyone is if they’re touching the puck. And even then you shouldn’t because checking people slows you down.”  
  
Matt considered that for a moment and Killian tried not to breathe, almost painfully aware of a metaphorical _parents of the year_ trophy next to the Conn-Smythe at home. “I don’t want to be slow,” Matt muttered eventually.

“Good. Then only if they’ve got the puck. Understood?”  
  
“Yeah.”

“Alright. You beating, Rol?”  
  
“Only because he’s cheating, Hook,” Roland whined and all of them forgot about the rule and checking and Peggy fell asleep with her head on Killian’s shoulder.

Or, they forgot about it until years later and Roland had made the U16 and U18 team, and Matt was getting college looks and offer letters and he kept winning faceoffs. And he wasn’t really ever much of a fighter – was far too concerned with setting some kind of goal record for the Team USA U17 squad to be worried about penalty minutes, but there was a kid on Team Canada at Junior Nationals who kept chirping and kept trying to hit his ankles without the ref noticing and it all kind of happened quickly.

Killian wasn’t sure it even had until he heard Emma’s disbelieving laugh next to him.

“Holy shit,” Will breathed, David holding his own phone up to record the moment and Killian’s eyes had gone impossibly wide. “He totally remembered the rule.”

Matt had the puck on his stick, but it was gone half a second later – as if he’d passed it to the Canadian kid and it took less than a full breath and a slightly dramatic gasp from both Mary Margaret and Ruby for him to check the other teenager into the boards, leading shoulder first as his stick connected with the very prone and decidedly padless spot of his left calf.

“Oh my God,” Emma muttered, trying to keep a six-year-old Chris in his seat while Peggy yelled loudly at the refs in several different languages. Ruby was hysterical. “You know, I’m going to go ahead and blame the other Jones for all of this. We gave him rules, Liam was the one who was trying to get him to fight.”  
  
Killian wasn’t sure if his pride was misplaced – particularly when Matt got two minutes for roughing – but it seemed to inch through every bit of him and might have exploded out of his center when the penalty box door opened and Matt had always been incredibly fast.

He barely slowed down when he crossed the blue line, something that looked like a smile on his face when he beat the defender and went forehand to backhand in front of the net.

The light went off.

“And you can take some credit for that,” Emma said, turning towards Killian with a smile that matched his own.

He kissed her quickly, ignoring Will and Robin’s comments and David’s laughter, and the United States beat Canada. Again. Or however it worked, technically, but there was a medal involved and Matt hugged both of them when they got onto the ice.

“Thanks for the tip, Dad,” Matt said and Killian barely got his laugh out before he wrapped his arm back around his kid’s shoulders and the picture got a ridiculous number of likes on Will’s Instagram.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let the record show that this is all @optomisticgirl's fault. She sent me a gif and my brain was like...alright. And then my husband also sent me the same gif, because I am nothing if not consistent in my interests, and added "this is totally how I played" and my brain just like...short-circuited completely. 
> 
> So here we are. I still hate the Pens and I miss the New York Rangers. Come flail on Tumblr: http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/


	7. Of Hockey Thighs & Video Game Goals

It should not have been a problem.

It wasn’t.

It was...it was the worst thing she’d ever seen, really. And by worst, she obviously meant best because words seemed to have lost all of their meaning at some indeterminate point that morning and Emma wasn’t sure she’d taken a deep breath in, like, the last ten minutes.

God, this was a problem.

She couldn't stop staring. Her eyes were staring to water, but her eyes simply would not close or blink or do anything except gape her husband, and she kept licking her lips because her mouth was actually _hanging open_ , and that might have just been her body’s innate reaction to try and get some goddamn oxygen in her lungs.

Which was, actually, kind of nice if she stopped to think about it.

At least her body was determined to maintain consciousness.

Killian would lose his mind if she actually passed out in the middle of this thing. And that would take some explaining.

Emma groaned softly, rolling her head in between her shoulders and trying to find a way to stand in the corner of this room without drawing too much attention to herself. And, really, she did have work to do – she was supposed to be watching this whole goddamn _event_ so she could send the video to Merida and there was something about Team USA, but Emma hadn’t really been listening to instructions because she was so distracted.

God.

She was going to burn those shorts he was wearing.

Or, maybe, like, frame them.

God. Again.

This was such a problem.

“Em,” Ruby called, and Emma nearly tripped over her own feet, jumping to attention and slamming her elbow into the wall she’d been cowering against in the process. She grumbled a string of curses under her breath, which wasn’t really helping her _under the radar_ cause much at all, but Emma had more or less resigned herself to the disaster that this afternoon was shaping up to be.

She didn’t thinks he’d ever seen those shorts before. God, why was he wearing shorts? It was the single most distracting thing she’d ever seen.

There was just a lot of muscle.

And, objectively, she knew they were there. He played hockey for a living. It happened. Hockey thighs were real things with real blogs dedicated to them, but now these very specific ones were _right there_ and the shorts weren’t helping and Emma was fairly sure that little indent just above Killian’s knee was actively trying to kill her.

She was staring again.

She was almost positive he was, somehow, flexing – feet propped on the bottom rung of a stool Ruby must have found somewhere because Emma had done absolutely nothing to actually help and maybe they should just _tell everyone_ because then, at least, she’d have some sort of excuse for practically salivating over her incredibly muscular husband.

She really should be spending more time staring at Killian’s thighs.

That was the single weirdest sentence she’d ever thought.

“Emma,” Ruby yelled again, drawing a quiet snicker out of Will who, it seemed, had been roped into camera duty at the same time he was trying to keep Matt distracted.

“Yeah, yeah, here,” Emma mumbled. It didn’t quite ring true though, and her voice shook as much as her hand when she ran it over her face, trying to remember she was a professional with an ever-growing to-do-list and a very enthusiastic two-and-a-half year old and a frantic assistant stateside and, maybe in addition to staring at her husband's _absurdly muscular_ thighs, they should stop having these life-changing kind of moments when they weren't in the continental United States.

It would probably just be easier that way.

“Yeah, you look it,” Will chuckled, wrapping an around Matt’s shoulders before he could try and launch himself at Emma. “Where’d you go?”  
  
She twisted her eyebrows. “Excuse me?”  
  
“You went all glossy and distracted and your eyes did that tired thing.”  
  
“At the risk of repeating myself, excuse me?”  
  
“Aw, c’mon,” Will shrugged, glancing around the room like he was looking for backup, but Ruby was trying to get Killian and Robin mic’ed up and there was a league rep somewhere and Roland and Henry had started sword fighting with the pair of discarded crutches in the corner. “You know what I mean,” Will continued. “It’s like you’re making lists in your head.”  
  
“Scarlet, can you stop talking about Emma’s head and how many lists she’s absolutely making?” Killian muttered, hissing when Ruby, presumably, pinched his side. “God, Lucas, do you actually have claws for nails?”  
  
She flicked his shoulder. “See, you think you’re funny, Cap, but you’re just making this harder for yourself. And Scarlet’s got a point, Em. What’s your deal?”  
  
“I have no deal,” Emma promised, and it was a God awful lie. She shouldn’t have been lying in front of her kid like that. It was a bad example. For the future.

Jeez.

She needed to go to bed. And find something to eat. She was starving. She didn’t really want to eat.

This was a disaster.

“You should have practiced that one,” Ruby suggested. Killian shifted on the stool again, which did _nothing_ to help distract Emma from his goddamn legs and the shorts and it felt like the room was on fire. She might have been fire.

Roland and Henry were still sword fighting.

“Shouldn’t you be standing on those?” Emma asked, nodding back towards the crutches, but she didn’t take her eyes off Will or the way he was only kind of balanced on his left foot.

He shrugged. “I mean technically.”  
  
“Technically.”  
  
“You guys should have some kind of great, big liar competition,” Robin mumbled. “Ah, shit, Lucas, what was that?”  
  
“There are children present here, Locksley,” Ruby growled, staring pointedly at Matt and he absolutely did not care. There were video games to watch and another game to get ready for and the Rangers hadn’t made the playoffs, but Killian and Robin had gotten invited to Worlds and maybe this whole _gaping at her husband thing_ started when Emma saw him in a Team USA jersey again.

The whole thing was incredibly cyclical.

“That was for being a jerk,” Ruby continued, widening her eyes in challenge and Robin might have blanched slightly. “Although, I mean, you do have a point.”  
  
“Right?”  
  
Ruby hummed noncommittally, but she glanced over her shoulder at Emma and her eyebrows might have been the single most judgmental things on the entire planet. Or, at least, in the country of Denmark.

“You’re not nearly as subtle as you think you are,” Emma muttered, and Matt had finally worked out of Wil’s hold. It was probably because Will couldn’t put much weight on his right knee and Ariel would teleport to Denmark and strangle him with her bare hands if he injured himself again. Or if Roland and Henry came home with bruises from his goddamn crutches.

Although she’d probably have to get through Regina first.

Matt, however, did not seem particularly inclined to care about any of that, tugging on Emma’s shirt and bobbing on the balls of his feet and Killian’s eyes kept darting towards her, a flash of concern and question and she really wished he’d put some goddamn fucking pants on.

She could not be expected to think coherent thoughts or properly parent their kid when he was sitting there like that, and staring at her like he was absolutely, incredibly in love with her.

Emma might have been blushing.

And Ruby kept looking at Will.

Cyclical indeed.

“Lucas can we get this show on the road?” Killian asked, and neither Will nor Robin could quite turn their laughs into convincing coughs.

Emma bit her lip.

Ruby’s eyebrows shifted again, a flash of something on her face that made Emma believe they all spent far too much time together. “Uh, yeah, sure Cap,” she said, voice shaking just a bit and smile threatening to practically crack her in half. “I mean, that’s the single most dad thing you’ve ever said, but…”

She trailed off, dissolving into something that was closer to a fit of giggles than the professional demeanor any of them were trying to hold onto.

Emma squeezed her eyes closed, tugging her kid closer to her side, and he didn’t really appreciate that – head colliding with her waist and there wasn’t really any physical evidence of anything yet, but Matt’s jaw came dangerously close to her stomach and Killian’s hitch of breath sounded impossibly loud.

Even when Roland started shouting about _low blows_ and Henry countered with something that sounded like _well, defend your weak side, then_ and Ruby nearly growled when Robin pulled his microphone out standing up.

They were all horrible adults.

“Guys, guys, guys,” Will shouted, but it didn’t hold much threat when he had to hobble towards Henry and Roland, and Robin was still trying to play mediator.

Ruby looked like she might be praying. To some kind of possibly benevolent hockey god who would let them film this goddamn video.

Emma was staring at Killian again.

“God, this was easier when there weren’t so many of us,” Ruby sighed. That didn’t really ring through either though, particularly when she flashed a smile Matt’s direction and Emma resisted the urge to point out she was the world’s biggest pushover for a two-and-a-half year old.

“Ah, that wasn’t a very good lie either, Lucas,” Killian grinned.

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll get Em to pencil in _practice lying_ time on those post-it notes I know she’s got all over your room.”  
  
“Nah,” Emma objected. “I’ve got it all memorized. I’m way more efficient during this international escapade. Totally learned from my mistakes.”

She was going to shave Ruby’s eyebrows off. Or something less drastic. Like get some food. Or find a chair.

Killian grinned at her. And possibly flexed his left thigh.

Emma wasn’t sure if that was possible.

“Right, right,” Ruby mumbled. “That wasn’t very convincing either, but I honestly do not have time for this and Mer is going to have a meltdown if we don’t get her something within the next forty-eight hours.”  
  
“That is a gross exaggeration.”  
  
“Yes, it is.”  
  
“Oh, wow, I thought there would have been more bantering,” Emma blinked, Matt squirming against her side and she was pleasantly surprised that they hadn’t sustained several meltdowns over not being included in the great crutch battle.

The crutches were back under Will’s arms, Robin rolling his eyes in a put-upon way and he nearly knocked over the stool when he sank back onto it, letting Ruby poke and prod and get the microphone back into place.

“This better not take forty-eight hours,” he warned, clicking his tongue when Ruby swatted at his shoulder again.

“You know,” Will cut in, hooking his head over Roland’s shoulder and he was far too tall for an eleven-year-old. “You guys are coming into this with decidedly garbage attitudes. You’re playing video games for twenty minutes. It will not kill you.”  
  
“Probably,” Henry chipped in. He slid down the wall at some point, one leg stretched out in front of him and the other tugged to his chest and whatever he was doing with his face was some weird combination of Killian and Robin that made Emma’s heart practically leap out of her chest.

“It’s a hockey game,” Ruby groaned, pushing a camera towards Will and he nearly fell over. “God, c’mon, Scarlet, take this seriously for two seconds.”  
  
“I am!”  
  
“No, you are making jokes and quips and Emma’s doing whatever it is her eyes are doing and if Cap stares at her any harder he’s going to snap her in half.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s weird, right?” Robin asked. Emma sighed.

And maybe her eyes drifted back towards the goddamn shorts. Honestly, she’d never been more insulted by and attracted to a single piece of clothing in her life.

“Definitely weird,” Henry agreed, grinning when Emma gaped at him. “What? That’s true. And Killian’s really bad at video games.”  
  
Robin’s laugh was probably too loud for whatever conference room they were in, but Will almost lost his balance again, mumbling an apology when he nearly fell on top of Roland, and Killian’s eyes widened.

That was almost as distracting as whatever happened to that one muscle in his leg when he tapped his foot.

Emma needed to sit down.

“Ok, if we keep getting distracted with all of this it is actually going to take forty-eight hours and then none of us are going to be able to FaceTime with M’s and David and the cute kid,” Ruby said, staring at them like she was waiting for someone to announce that they didn’t, in fact, want to FaceTime with an only few weeks old Leo Nolan.

Getting to see his sleep-deprived parents was just a bonus.

“And we do have those pesky actual hockey games to play,” Robin added. He twisted his hand in the air, a controller appearing out of seemingly nowhere because the league rep Emma had only kind of forgotten about clearly knew how to apparate.

He handed Killian one as well, quiet instructions about _not throwing them_ and Henry snickered from his spot on the wall, shrugging when Emma narrowed her eyes at him.

“What do you say to a bet, kid?” she asked. Will might have cackled.

Henry tilted his head. “You want to bet on this video game video that’s just supposed to hype up Team USA?”  
  
“Yes, exactly that.”  
  
“Stakes?”  
  
“Your call.”  
  
“Oh, that’s a dangerous game, Em,” Will warned, Roland laughing against his side and Matt had lost all interest in Emma's shirt. The league rep only looked slightly affronted when he climbed back on Killian’s lap. No one else was even remotely surprised.

Emma hummed, glancing back her husband and her kid and her mood seemed to swing as often as her desire to eat did, but she was happy and a little exhausted and they should really tell everyone at some point.

Maybe on that FaceTime call.

Mary Margaret would probably cry.

“So,” Emma continued, taking a step towards Henry and sinking down the wall next to him until their shoulders bumped and there was a joke to be made somewhere about time passing and the more things change, the more they stay the same. Or something. “Stakes, kid?”

It took a moment, and his voice was so quiet Emma barely heard him, but her heart might have burst when she finally understood the words.

“If Robin wins, do you think you could read something for me?” Henry asked softly, quiet enough that Emma knew he didn’t want anyone else to hear him. “It’s just...for school and I’m starting to think about places to goand I--”

“--Deal,” Emma interrupted. “If Robin wins.”  
  
And no matter, what, she thought, but that was decidedly sentimental and she’d spent most of the day staring at her husband’s thighs, so she didn’t entirely trust her emotions.

There were, of course, rules.

It was a Team USA promo video, but these were still New York Rangers first-liners and there was a bet on the line and they were competitive to a fault.  
  
“Ok,” Ruby said, standing in front of the TV screen a _different_ league reap had wheeled in at some point. “You guys are going to play three games. There’s some setting or something that stops the game when you get to a certain score and--”  
  
“--Oh my God, Lucas,” Killian laughed, and even Emma couldn’t hold back her laugh. She was slightly worried Henry was going to concuss himself from inadvertently slamming his head into the wall and Roland’s whole body shook against hers when he let his head loll onto Emma’s shoulder. “That was the oldest sentence I’ve ever heard,” Killian continued. “And you were making fun of me before.”  
  
“Yeah, well, that’s because you and Em are being weird,” Ruby hissed. “We don’t have time for this, Cap!”  
  
“It’s fake pool play, Hook,” Roland explained. He didn’t move his head. “So you and Dad play three games as three different countries and whoever reaches ten goals first in each game wins.”

“Ten goals?” Robin balked. “God, that’s a ton of goals.”  
  
“Killian’s not that good at playing,” Henry promised, grinning when the professional hockey player in question rolled his eyes again.

Ruby sighed dramatically. “Guys, I’m serious! We have to get this video to Mer or I really think she’s going to combust on 34th Street and I don’t need that on my conscious right now.”  
  
“And you want to make ridiculous faces at Leo Nolan,” Emma knowingly.

“Yeah, well, whatever, you want to keep making eyes at Cap!”  
  
“That’s not true!”  
  
“Of course it’s not,” Ruby promised, but the sarcasm was practically dripping off her voice and Emma was ninety-two percent positive _she_ was going to combust in the middle of goddamn Denmark. They did not have potato dumplings in Denmark.

Matt was still sitting on top of Killian.

“Alright,” Ruby said, nodding as if that would get back some control of the situation and the now, apparently, half a dozen league reps in the conference room all looked slightly stunned by the incredible normal goings on of the New York Rangers first line. “Can we get back to video games, please?”  
  
Robin saluted. Killian grinned.

“Oh my God.”

“I’m assuming you don’t want us to swear on camera, right, Lucas?” Killian asked, but his eyes flickered towards Emma and he totally knew she was staring. He’d absolutely known the whole time. The shorts were probably some kind of ploy.

Although, really, all things considered, that seemed kind of unnecessary at this point.

He smirked at her.

She was going to smack him. With her mouth.

She was way too aggressive.

“No, Cap,” Ruby argued. “I totally want you to swear on camera.” Killian’s eyebrows jumped. “Jeez, no,” she seethed. “Of course not! And there are kids here. Your kid is literally hanging off of you right now. Which, speaking of, come here mini-Jones. You’re going to hang with me while your dad probably loses horribly to Uncle Robin.”

She held her arms out expectantly and it took less than a full second for Matt to climb up her side, head burrowed into the curve of her shoulder.

“First to ten goals wins,” Ruby continued. “Three games, no swearing and, oh, right we’re going to ask some questions while you play so, ready, set go.”  
  
“Wait, what?” Killian asked, at the same time Robin mumbled something that sounded a hell of a lot like several different curse words, but Ruby just grinned and moved behind the stools and started talking to the camera Will was still, somehow, holding.

And really Killian was god awful at playing video games.

He kept making ridiculous noises, his whole body moving with the weight of his frustration – which did not help Emma’s attempts to look at anything that wasn’t his goddamn thigh muscle – and Will couldn't stop laughing and Henry and Roland kept muttering running commentary under their breath.

“You’re uh, you’re really seeming to struggle here, aren’t you, Cap?” Ruby asked, hitching Matt further up her side so she could rest a not-quite supportive hand on Killian’s shoulder.

He glared at open air. And gave up another goal.

“How is that even possible?” Killian shouted at no one in particular. “My guy was definitely in the shooting lane.”  
  
“You can’t just expect him to block your shot for you, Cap,” Robin grinned. “And I think that means we’re only three goals away from a pretty crushing defeat.”

“You are a God awful trash talker.”  
  
“Nah, this is good. Plus, this brings you back to Earth, doesn’t it?”  
  
“How do you figure?”  
  
“Ah, well, you scored on that breakaway against Germany and it’s all you’ve been talking about because you're trying to show off for Emma, so now you’re a little more grounded and aware of what you’re actually good at.”  
  
“Wow,” Ruby muttered. “That was...almost harsh, Locksley.”  
  
Robin shrugged, twisting his fingers and, somehow, moving his wrists at the same time he seemed to hold onto the controller tighter and the telltale sounds of the goal horn going off practically exploded out of the TV.

Henry and Roland whooped.

And fist pumped.

“This is ridiculous,” Killian grumbled, eyes finding Emma’s again and she’d started biting her lip at some point. Probably when he moved on the stool and the edge of his shorts twisted slightly and he was right.

It was absolutely ridiculous.

“You’ve got to move quicker, Hook,” Roland explained. “It’s like being on the ice.”  
  
“It is not anything like being on the ice. Do not compare it to that.” Robin scored again. And Killian looked like he was getting ready to throw the controller – possibly at several different league reps. “God,” he sighed. “Is this almost over?”  
  
“Have you lost your ability to count, Cap?” Robin asked.

“And,” Ruby added. “Can we not lose quite yet? We’ve still got some questions here.”  
  
Killian groaned. “Lucas, I can not focus on the game if you are chirping in my ear.”  
  
“Ok, first of all, I resent the implication that I am doing anything remotely resembling chirping and, again, I’d like to remind you that this is a league video and while we can edit this out, I need you to at least pretend like you care. Stop staring at Emma, Cap.”

He stuttered at that, eyebrows flying up his forehead and Emma was going to do permanent damage to her lower lip. “I’m not,” Killian mumbled, but it was as good as her lie before and Ruby’s expression didn’t change.

“Sure you not. Alright, question number one, Cap, if you could have one talent that wasn’t hockey, what would it be?”  
  
“Is that a joke, Lucas?”  
  
“That is exactly the question Emma and I came up with.”  
  
It could not have been healthy for Killian’s eyes to get that wide. Or for his mouth to drop open that quickly. Or that far.

He nearly dropped the controller.

“Swan, you wrote these questions?” he asked, and Roland grumbled slightly when she shrugged in response.

“I mean...I knew this was going to happen.”  
  
“Me being embarrassed by Locksley at video games?”  
  
“No, no, although let’s all be honest with ourselves, Locksley is kind of cheating. He’s definitely banking off Henry and Rol’s knowledge of this game and their probable talent at this game.”  
  
“How do you figure?” Robin asked sharply, shouting when his game-winning goal went in and Ruby clicked her tongue in frustration. “There’s still one more game, Lucas. Maybe Cap will almost make it look respectable down the stretch.”  
  
“Fingers crossed,” Ruby muttered.

Killian made a face. Emma tried not to smile. “Alright, alright,” he said “Let’s just get this over with. You ever going to put my kid down, Lucas?”  
  
“No. You going to answer Em’s question?”  
  
It took a second for him to answer – an impossibly long, slightly tense second filled with video game sound effects and a puck graphic hitting a stick graphic and Killian jumped out of the stool when he scored the game’s first goal.

Emma had to put her hand over mouth to stop herself from giggling.

“Take that, Locksley,” Killian yelled, ignoring Robin’s continued trash talk, and he grinned at Ruby when he had to pick the stool up from where it had crashed onto the ground. “And my super sappy answer to your question, Lucas, and Swan,” he added, glancing Emma’s direction. Her lip might have been bleeding. “Is to be a good dad. So remember that when you’re showing off in front of your kids, Locksley.”

Robin blinked, but he didn’t actually say anything and he smiled when he nodded. Emma tried very hard not to cry.

She started staring at Killian’s left thigh again.

“Ah, why’d you have to make it weird, Cap?” Will asked, but Ruby was already shaking her head and they hadn’t actually said anything yet, but she might have been a mind-reader and Emma was exhausted.

And making eyes at Killian.

And he kept trying to get her to sit down.

They were so bad at under the radar.

“Not weird,” Emma mumbled, drawing a quiet noise of agreement out of Ruby. It was difficult to make out when her head was buried in Matt’s back though. “Super sappy, but not weird.”  
  
“Ah, well, that was the goal, Swan,” Killian said, another smirk on his face and incredibly blue eyes and he definitely moved his feet to that lower rung on purpose.

He didn’t score another goal and the whole video was a little embarrassing and a little ridiculous and the absolute embodiment of the New York Rangers first line, smiles on their faces and laughter echoing off the walls and Matt fell asleep with his head on Ruby’s shoulder.

And the league reps wanted to talk to Killian and Robin afterwards – thanks for doing this, as if Ruby had given them a choice, and expectations for the game against Finland, and something about America in general with a stuffed animal that was apparently some kind of prize for winning the competition on camera – but Emma’s eyes didn’t leave Killian once, particularly when he turned around and that slight indent in his thigh was even more obvious and--

“You alright, Swan?”

She jerked up, blinking in surprise to find him so close to her and her eyes almost level with his knees and, eventually, Emma would blame that on whatever came out of her mouth next.

And the hormones.

Mostly the hormones.

“God, where did you even get these shorts?” she asked, half shouting the words at Killian’s shins and he arched an eyebrow when she glanced up.

“What?”  
  
Emma felt the blush in her cheeks, eyes wide and something else settling in the pit of her stomach that felt a hell of a lot like butterflies and nerves and this  _should not have been an issue_ , but the shorts looked good and he looked good and they’d only found out she was pregnant a couple weeks before.

She was stupid attracted to her husband and father of their, soon-to-be, two kids.

“Swan, you’ve got to tell me what you’re thinking, love,” Killian said, crouching in front of her and that was, somehow, even worse. The shorts rode up slightly and she was fairly certain the muscles were actively trying to taunt her at this point.

“You worry too much.”  
  
“You make it very easy.”  
  
“It’s really not a big deal,” Emma promised, but she could hear the undercurrent of sincerity of his voice and he was as worried as promised. “I just…”  
  
“Yuh huh?”  
  
“You’re really not making this easy.”

She shouldn’t have been surprised he caught on so quickly, his slight head tilt more than enough proof that he understood what she was talking about, but then he smiled at her and it seemed to inch across his face in slow motion, like _that_ was purposely trying to taunt Emma too and she had no idea where their kid was.

Probably still hanging off Ruby.

“Swan,” Killian said, dragging out her name until she was positive she could _feel_ it. “Are you ogling me in these shorts?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Swan.”  
  
“No!”

“Emma.”  
  
She stuck her tongue out at him. She’d blame the hormones for that too. And he was still crouching in front of her. “Aw, c’mon,” Emma sighed, tugging her hair over her shoulder and the smile was a full-blown grin now that seemed to light some kind of fire in between her ribs. “That is just patently stupid. And really, really unfair. And teasing.”  
  
“All of the above, love.”  
  
“The mother of your children,” she said, pointing to herself like he wasn’t almost _too_ aware of every single one of her symptoms and how big the baby was, and Killian’s smile shifted, less goading and more endearing and Emma wouldn’t cry.

Probably.

Hopefully.

She wouldn’t have been entirely opposed to making out either.

“And?” Killian prompted, rocking towards her and pulling her hands away from her front. His thumb worked its way under her laces, tapping softly against her wrist, which Emma was also sure was, somehow, cheating, but she was admittedly distracted by the goddamn fucking shorts again.

She was going to write a very strongly worded letter to the Team USA apparel manufacturer.

“And I can’t think when you’re wearing these shorts,” Emma whined. Killian really did do his best not to smile too wide, but there wasn’t much of a point and he was practically some hockey-playing peacock at this point. “Seriously,” Emma continued, voice cracking traitorously when her free hand moved of its own accord, tracing over the curve of his shoulder and the back of his neck and they needed to be anywhere that wasn’t this conference room.

“Seriously what?”  
  
“You can’t figure it out?”  
  
“I’d really love to hear it.”  
  
Killian chuckled when she swatted at his chest, but he also apparently had some kind of deep-rooted athletic response time that existed anywhere except during quasi video game tournaments and his fingers were warm when they caught around Emma’s wrist.

He kissed her knuckles.

“Have your legs always looked like that?”

“What?”  
  
“Your legs,” Emma repeated, eyes flitting towards the offending muscle and that was a mistake. She was distracted again. “It’s...a lot.”  
  
“A lot.”  
  
“God, why do you just keep saying the same thing I’m saying?”  
  
“Because that was honestly not what I was expecting, Swan,” Killian admitted. “A pleasant surprise, but a surprise all the same. And I think it’s an occupational hazard. Why are you harping on my legs?”  
  
“Thighs, technically. If you want to be specific.”  
  
“I would love to be specific.”  
  
Emma refused to be held accountable for whatever noise she made at that, but she was tired and kind of hungry and kind of not and only a little frustrated that they weren’t making out or buying forty-two pairs of these shorts so they could live in this moment for the foreseeable future.

He’d moved his hand to her stomach at some point.

“You’re a flirt,” Emma accused, tugging lightly on the front of his shirt and she’d barely gotten the words out before he was nodding in response.

“As previously mentioned love, you are the mother of my children, so I think that’s part of the deal. And you started it with the ogling. If you want to get technical.”  
  
She scrunched her nose, but her pulse picked up a bit and Killian’s fingers were moving, tracing absent-minded patterns over the front of the dress. “It wasn’t ogling. It was...an appreciative glance. Or stare. Whatever. Your thigh muscles are absurd.”  
  
“I’m going to take that as a compliment.”  
  
“It was. And distracting.”  
  
“Yeah, I noticed.”  
  
“Is that why you were so bad at playing video games?”  
  
Killian shook his head, a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat, but he pressed a kiss to Emma’s temple and they needed to be seventy-six other places. They needed to find their kid. “No,” he laughed. “That was the extent of my video game playing talent. Although I am glad you’ll read whatever Henry asked you to read now.”  
  
“I would have done that anyway.”  
  
“I know that, Swan.”  
  
“How’d you hear him?”  
  
“Super-sonic hearing. It’s almost as impressive as the thigh muscles.”  
  
“Oh my God,” she sighed, but she was kind of charmed by it and he knew that as well as he knew she’d been staring at him all day. “You don’t get to lord this over me forever, you know. This is solely hormone-based.”  
  
Killian nodded, but it felt a little placating – particularly when his hand flattened against her and there wasn’t quite a curve there, but the website claimed there was a cherry there now and they were really good at this whole _living life_ thing.

“Noted, Swan,” he promised, ducking down to catch her lips with his and there was the making out Emma had been waiting for.

They were good at that too.

“Can you get off the floor now, love?” Killian asked. “Please?”  
  
“I’m going to look up blood pressure facts and send them to you at random times to remind you that caring about your blood pressure is important.”  
  
“My blood pressure is perfectly fine.”  
  
“But?”  
  
“But,” he echoed, standing up and offering Emma his hand. She took it almost immediately. “I think it is well within my rights to worry about my girls.”

“You’re on a sappy, sentimental roll,” she mumbled, stepping into his space and wrapping her arms around his middle and that was mostly so he didn’t see the tears in her eyes, but he was almost too good at reading her at this point.

And he really thought it was going to be a girl.

“Ah, well,” Killian shrugged. He didn’t get anymore out though, a noise from the doorway that was somewhere between a screech and a scream and the audible manifestation of joy.

Ruby’s mouth was hanging open – Matt still clinging to her side and Will behind her with his own slightly stunned expression on his face. Robin was still holding the stuffed animal. It looked a duck. And there was a phone in Ruby’s hand.

“Are you guys serious?” Ruby shouted. “Oh my God, I knew it. I knew it! Scarlet, I win.”  
  
“What?” Killian yelled, but Emma didn’t move her head, just tightened her arms and tried to breathe him in and she smiled when he kissed the top of her hair.

Will waved both his hands through the air. “It’s not nearly that bad, Cap, honestly. Just...you know, Lucas and I were guessing. And speculating.”  
  
“About me being pregnant?” Emma asked.

Several someones on the phone made noise. A baby cried in New York.

“We had a hunch,” Will reasoned, but Ruby was mumbling we _totally knew_ and Killian kept trying to kiss Emma’s temple, like that was grounding him or something. “Cap keeps trying to get you to sit down, Em. It was like watching history repeat itself.”

“He’s super worried all the time,” Robin added.

“Cyclical, huh?” Emma asked. “Can you tell him to worry about his blood pressure? He won’t listen to me.”  
  
“Deal. And,” he continued, holding the duck out expectantly. “I claim the honor of being the first one to gift mini-Jones two-point-oh something. In memory of how bad her dad is at playing video games.”

“Can we get some actual confirmation here?” Mary Margaret asked, voice a bit distorted through the FaceTime call and a distinct lack of sleep.

“Reese’s, shouldn’t you be sleeping?” Emma countered. She was already shaking her head. And Killian’s lips brushed over Emma’s forehead. “Alright, alright, well, we were trying to do this a slightly more normal way this time, but I’m blaming the shorts, honestly.”  
  
“What?” Ruby asked.

“Nothing, nothing, nothing. That’s...I’m about two months pregnant.”

There were more shouts and a few more tears and Leo Nolan shrieking from several thousand miles away, but Emma couldn’t stop smiling and Killian couldn’t stop laughing and it was kind of nice in a kind of perfect way – even with history kind of repeating itself.

They almost got kicked out of the conference room, the league reps scandalized by the small party they seemed to be throwing, and Ruby grinned conspiratorially at Emma when she slung an arm over Matt’s shoulder.

“What do you say you come stay with me tonight, mini-Jones?” she asked. “We can give your parents some privacy to make eyes behind closed doors.”  
  
“You’re a pillar of support, Lucas,” Killian muttered, but it wasn’t an objection, and Ruby knew she’d won.

“Yeah, I am. Remember that in the future or whatever.”  
  
And, several hours later, the goddamn shorts looked better on the hotel room floor.

“I love you,” Emma muttered, hair over several different pillows and possibly in Killian’s face and she practically yelped when he tugged her closer to his side.

“I love you too, Swan. Even after the ogling.”  
  
“Oh my God.”  
  
“It’s a good word.”  
  
“Yeah, whatever.”  
  
“A girl, Swan. Absolutely a girl.”  
  
“You don’t know that for sure.”  
  
Killian made a contradictory noise, moving further under the blankets and tracing the tips of his fingers over her bare stomach. “A hunch. And we’re one for one already, love. Those are pretty good odds to consider.”  
  
He didn’t brag, nearly seven months later, when Margaret Elsa Jones arrived with a tuft of black hair and an incredibly impressive set of lungs, but he did smile and kiss the top of Emma’s hair and promised he loved her.

More than anything.

And for a little while Emma almost forgot about the goddamn shorts and the goddamn thigh muscles and how absurdly attracted she was to her husband until she woke up one night to find him slouched in the rocking chair on the other side of the room with a Peggy on his chest – just back from a road trip and there was a now three-year-old draped on Killian’s side of the bed.

Killian wasn’t quite asleep, and there was a stuffed duck under his hip, but his eyelids were fluttering and his fingers were tracing those same patterns they always followed whenever he touched Emma, and her heart felt like it burst when she looked at him, wearing the goddamn shorts with a towel draped over his shoulder.

“You’re staring, Swan,” Killian mumbled, low and gruff and it took a quick moment of cajoling to make sure Peggy didn’t start crying.

“Yeah,” she nodded. “And that was a good goal tonight.”  
  
“Ah, well, I knew I had an audience.”  
  
“Flirt.”  
  
“Always, Swan. Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is entirely @optimisticgirl's fault. And Chris Kreider's. Who kept providing inspiration throughout Worlds and then scored two goals in the bronze medal game and did the patented Killian Jones goal celebration. 
> 
> Anyway, the Google doc name of this story was: Emma Loses Her Shit Over Killian's Thigs. 
> 
> Come flail on Tumblr: http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/


	8. Going Tape to Tape

“What are you doing?”  
  
Emma froze, breath catching in her throat and she nearly lost her footing – which probably would have sent Killian into several different types of metaphorical and literal tailspins – spinning on the spot to find him staring speculatively at her.

He was leaning against the frame of the open door, feet crossed at the ankles and what appeared to be a fairly new team-branded t-shirt on. And he was smiling.

Emma squeezed one eye shut. “Nothing,” she muttered, but she was the worst liar in the history of several different worlds and he absolutely knew already.

She was standing in front of the goddamn mirror.

“Yuh huh,” Killian nodded, taking a step into the room and resting his hands on the sides of her hips. “That was bad, Swan.”  
  
“Yeah, well, you surprised me.”  
  
“Are you telling me that if I hadn’t just caught you staring at your own reflection in the mirror, you would have been able to come up with a better story for what you were doing?”  
  
“That was a very convoluted question.”  
  
“Sounds like a yes.”  
  
She groaned, leaning back against his chest out of instinct and habit and want, which, might have been some kind of symptom, but they’d been under self-imposed house arrest for the last three days and hadn’t even looked at their phones, let alone looked up pregnancy clichés. Or symptoms. Whatever.

Emma had no idea where her phone was.

“What are you looking for exactly, love?” Killian asked, and he couldn’t quite keep the laughter out of his voice when he ducked his head to press a kiss against the curve of her shoulder.

She scowled at open air, but he apparently had eyes in the wall or something equally impossible, because he laughed again and caught her fingers before she could actually swat at his thigh.

“That is stupid unfair,” she accused.

“Swan, we’ve been over this. Bad liar, standing in front of the mirror with your shirt rucked up. It didn’t take a genius to put two and two--”  
  
“No, no, the reaction time,” Emma interrupted, appreciating his quiet hum of confusion more than she expected to. “You’ve got crazy reflexes.”  
  
“Yeah, well, rumor has it I’m some kind of professional athlete.”  
  
Emma laughed – or it might have been a giggle, which she absolutely planned to blame on hormones for, just, like, the rest of her life. “That’s the rumor, huh?” she asked, twisting in his hold to sling an arm over his shoulders and Killian’s eyes fluttered shut when her fingers found the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Look who’s cheating now.”  
  
“None of this conversation makes much sense, you know that, right?”  
  
“I beg to disagree, Swan. I think we’re making plenty of sense, you’re just avoiding my questions and my incredibly on-point points because you’re distracted and slightly attracted to my previously mentioned professional athlete reflexes.”  
  
“God,” Emma groaned, but he knew he was right and she knew he knew and they were going in circles. He kissed the top of her hair when her head landed on his chest. “Awfully presumptuous of you.”

Killian made a dismissive noise in the back of his throat, pressing another kiss to her head as his hand found its way to her stomach and they hadn’t been out of the apartment in three days, but that kept happening.

Emma wasn’t keeping track.

Of course not.

Obviously.

She should have looked for her phone while he was in the shower.

“I’ve got some good sources on that,” Killian mumbled, and Emma didn’t have to look up to know that he was smirking. He was probably doing something stupid with his eyebrows.

She leaned back, lifting her own brows and pointedly ignoring whatever it was his hand was doing – tracing out patterns and he kept doing this thing with his thumb, making semicircles on her skin like he was skating from blue line to blue line. Or like he was just trying to make sure this was all really happening.

“More than one source?” Emma asked archly. “Or more than one kid?”  
  
If asked, she would promise that she absolutely, positively did not do it for the reaction. Emma was an adult. An impending mother. A goddamn professional who really should have found her phone because the New York Rangers were absolutely going to want to honor America when they played at the Garden again.

If asked, Emma would have absolutely lied.

And Killian would have known.

Because she really, really liked whatever his whole body did whenever she used _that_ word, thumb stilling and shoulders sagging just a bit, like he still couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it, or come to terms with how incandescently happy he was.

He’d used that word several times in the last three days.

She’d definitely done it for the reaction.  
  
“Cheater, cheater, cheater,” Killian said, pressing kisses to her jaw and the bridge of her nose and the edge of her eye and it was a miracle Emma didn’t dissolve into a fit of giggles, hormone-induced or otherwise. The arm around her waist helped.

“Yeah, totally,” she admitted. “But that’s like a thing, right? Genetics or whatever?”  
  
“You’re just saying words, Swan.”  
  
“Elsa and Liam have twins.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And what?” Killian repeated. He tilted his head when he realized, hair falling dangerously close to his eyes and it really shouldn’t have been that attractive, but they were talking about _their kid_ and they had a doctor’s appointment in a few hours and a party to celebrate America at the brownstone later because the Rangers didn’t play until the next day and neither one of them was looking forward to a three-game swing on the road so soon after getting home.

And he knew what she’d been doing in front of the mirror.

“I have no idea how genetics work,” Killian said. “But I’m fairly certain that’s why they have doctors and appointments and ultrasounds. Right?”  
  
Emma nodded, but her pulse was racing and there were butterflies in her stomach and she was wearing team-branded too. God, they couldn’t both wear team-branded to the doctors.

She didn’t really want to change.

“I was just…” she started, and eventually she’d have to thank him for not smiling _too_ wide because she wasn’t sure she could quite deal with that. But he did look somewhere close to overjoyed and incandescent was a really good word for the last three days. “Doesn’t look any different,” Emma finished. “Right?”  
  
They both needed to stop adding questions to their statements.

Killian hummed, eyes flitting down towards his hand, like he was checking to make sure. “Did you think it would?”  
  
“Did you?”

“Swan, you can’t answer my question with one of your own. These are basic conversational rules, love. And, no, I didn't.”  
  
“Why do you know that?”  
  
He eyed her meaningfully, but Emma just pressed her lips together and tugged lightly on the front of his shirt. That was a mistake – her ring was on her left hand and they had far too much news to share with the Vankalds.

The butterflies were in her throat.

“You weren’t supposed to be looking at your phone,” Emma accused. “There were rules to this vacation, Captain.”  
  
“This was a vacation?”  
  
“Killian!”

He laughed, eyes bright and Emma chased after him when he brushed his lips over hers, a fact that, if it were any sort of normal day, would have led to several vaguely sarcastic and equally charming remarks. But they didn’t really have time and their three days were up and she was only a little concerned about those wires Killian had yanked out of the wall when they got back from the Games.

Someone on this stupid hockey team must known an electrician.

“I didn’t break any of the rules,” Killian said softly, taking his time on every letter and the butterflies in Emma’s throat got a little distracted by the sound of her impossibly loud heartbeat. “But there was wifi on the plane and you fell asleep pretty quickly and--”  
  
“--I’m pregnant, I’m supposed to be tired all the time. That’s normal in the first trimester.”  
  
He beamed at her.

And, really, Emma should have expected that because she kept using very specific words and Killian was a giant, sentimental sap who really enjoyed hearing those very specific words.

But the expression still left her a little breathless and Emma was only slightly convinced she wasn’t just _made_ of butterflies at this point.

“I know it is, love,” he whispered. “But I’m answering your question.”  
  
He waited a moment, as if he expected her to interrupt again, and his smile, somehow, got even wider when she didn’t. “And,” Killian continued. “I had wifi on the plane and a little bit of time, so I looked some things up. For...curiosity's sake.”

“Curiosity?”  
  
“Mine. Specifically. And I think the twin thing is Vankald genetics, so really that happened because of El.”  
  
“Oh, let me be there when you tell her that, please,” Emma laughed, but Killian was already shaking his head before she’d even closed her mouth.

“Do not tell her I said that.”

“She’d find a stick and check you in the ankles.”  
  
“I’ve got no doubt, that’s why I don’t want you to tell her I said that.”

She grinned, the butterflies returning or migrating or whatever it was metaphorical butterflies did, falling back into the pit of her stomach and Emma, at least, felt like she could breathe a little easier. “You’re obsessed with websites,” she muttered, and she’d never let go of his shirt.

“Curious,” Killian corrected. “I am curious. Mostly about a permanent set of kidneys.”  
  
“I’m sorry, what?”  
  
“That’s what the thing said. If my math is right, around seven weeks, there are permanent kidneys and arm and leg joints. And he’s growing about a hundred brain cells a minute.”  
  
Emma gaped, and that certainty that her lungs were a functioning, normal part of her body seemed to fly out the still-open doorway in front of her. Her knuckles went white around Killian’s shirt. “Oh,” she breathed, a note of something that sounded like awe and felt a bit more like disbelief in the letters. “Wow.”  
  
“He’s probably a genius by now. So job well done by us.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure that’s really how it works,” Emma mumbled. “Although it does sound better than hummingbird heartbeat. Leg joints, huh?” Killian nodded slowly, palm still flat on her stomach and she’d never actually fixed her goddamn shirt. She was totally looking for something. “You need those to skate.”  
  
“Generally knees do come into play while skating.”  
  
“And elbows.”

“Difficult to stick-handle if you can’t move your arms.”  
  
“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”  
  
Killian’s eyes widened at the not-quite insult, a flash of blue and feeling and Emma was a complete and utter mess of emotions and hormones and butterflies, because she was pushing up on toes before she really thought about it, finally letting go of his shirt to sling both arms around his neck and kiss him – hard.

He stuttered slightly, probably because she was attack-kissing them in the middle of their bedroom and his hair was still damp from the shower and neither of them had had any contact with the outside word in seventy-two hours, but Emma kind of felt like _everything_ was happening at once, and she needed an outlet.

Her fiancé’s distinct ability to make out with her felt like a fairly good one.

Or it would have been if someone didn’t appear to be breaking into their apartment.

“What the fuck?” Killian hissed, not bothering to pull away from Emma’s mouth, and her answering laugh was a little manic. She really needed to change her shirt.

“Let them take whatever they want,” Emma muttered. “We’ll just trace the IP.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I mean obviously someone’s discovered that we stole the Conn-Smythe and now they’re here to steal it and auction it off on the internet. I bet Ruby knows how to trace an IP. Or David. That makes more sense.”  
  
“I’d imagine we’d go to the police when reporting this crime, Swan.”  
  
“You think you’re hysterical.”  
  
“From time to time,” Killian admitted, but the words got caught in the air when he was trying to kiss her at the same time. “And we really didn’t steal the Conn-Smythe. Borrowed.”  
  
“That makes it sound like we’re going to give it back.”  
  
“Eventually, eventually. Maybe after the kissing. And the doctor. And teaching our kid how to stick handle properly.”  
  
“You don’t know how to stick handle properly,” Emma muttered, smiling when Killian made some kind of disbelieving noise in the back of his throat. And, really, they probably would have spent another ten minutes standing stock-still in the middle of their bedroom making out like several varieties of cliché teenagers, but whoever was trying to break into their apartment appeared to be leading with their shoulder against their front door.

It was very loud.

“If this is anyone except some door to door salesman, I’m going to find a stick and check them in the ankles,” Killian muttered.

“Do traveling salesmen exist anymore? Isn’t that just Harold Hill?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You know. Seventy-six trombones and you’ve got trouble. With a capital T.”  
  
“You are speaking in tongues.”  
  
“I’m not,” Emma promised, eyes flitting towards the door when it sounded like someone kicked at it. And she could just make out the muffled voice on the other side of the wood, demands to _make sure you’re still alive because everyone is really worried_ and Emma rolled her eyes towards the ceiling. “You might want to actually find that stick,” she suggested, twisting around Killian before he could stop her or say something stupid overprotective because the police officer currently trying to break into their apartment really did have their best interests at heart.

David nearly fell over the threshold when Emma opened the door.

“Did Mary Margaret send you?” she asked. He shook his head. “Ruby?” Another shake. “Who?”

“Merida,” David said, running a hand over his face and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Although Ruby was probably a close second because Merida went to her first. And I’m going to go ahead and award myself the bronze because you should really at least have some way for us to reach you.”

“We ripped out the wires.”  
  
“I’m sorry, what?”  
  
“Do you know how to fix that?” Emma asked, but David looked torn between disbelief and hysterics and she was kind of glad no one was coming to steal their Conn-Smythe.

“I am not an electrician,” he said. “And as mentioned, here to make sure you’re not both nursing several broken bones or life-threatening injuries and because your assistant is having several different types of meltdowns.”

“What?”  
  
“Yup. And it took Ruby some time to respond, I guess, because everyone’s sleep schedules are still messed up and she is actually good at keeping secrets, so your assistant doesn’t know that you need to be sleeping more.”  
  
Emma groaned. “Oh my God.”  
  
“That’s just a fact.”  
  
“Were you looking up facts, Detective?”  
  
“No,” David said quickly, gaze darting over Emma’s left shoulder when Killian moved into the living room. Emma arched an eyebrow. “I didn’t! But, uh,” he added softly, digging the toe of his exceptionally shiny dress shoe into the ground. “Mary Margaret might have. Just out of…”  
  
“Curiosity?” Killian suggested, and David shrugged in response.  
  
He, quite clearly, did not want to be checked in the hallway.

“Something like that.”  
  
“And she thinks she’s my mom,” Emma added, but she couldn't quite get her voice to sound as frustrated as she wanted it to. David bit back a smile. “What exactly did Mer want, David?”  
  
“To brainstorm or something, I guess. Something about America.”  
  
Emma hummed, rocking back on her heels, and it only took a moment for Killian’s hand to land on the small of her back – like he was trying to make sure she didn’t topple backwards. She couldn't bring herself to be frustrated by that either.

“We won a gold medal,” Emma reasoned. “Seems fairly safe to assume that the Rangers would want to hype that. We should probably do something for Phillip too, though, right?”  
  
“He didn’t win, Swan,” Killian pointed out.

“Yeah, but he was there and he’s on the team and…”  
  
“And you’re going to do way more work than you have to. Merida can do the extra stuff if she wants to. She can send stuff to the season-tickets. You don’t need to do all of that.”  
  
“He’s got a point, Em,” David muttered, widening his eyes when Emma sighed. “Something about sitting down and pressure on your spine.”  
  
“Oh my God,” she groaned. “There is no pressure on my spine. My spine is perfectly fine. And I am more than capable of sending e-mails to the season-tickets. That actually requires me to sit down, you know.”

David didn’t look convinced. “You’d figure out a way to do that standing up if you had to.”  
  
“I am fine.”

“Not nursing any broken bones or life-threatening injuries?” Emma scowled, and David finally let himself smile, leaning forward to tug lightly on the sleeve of her shirt. “I worry about you, kid. And your sleeping habits.”  
  
Her expression had never really reached glare-type levels, but Emma felt any hint of frustration disappear at the look on David’s face and the honestly in his voice and, at some point, Killian’s hand had moved from her back to her stomach. “I know you do,” Emma mumbled. “But I’m fine. Really. I can get a doctor’s note to prove it later, if you want.”  
  
David nearly fell over.

“What?” he sputtered. “When? Today?”  
  
“You’ve got very bad timing, Detective,” Emma grinned. “We’re probably going to be late because of you.”  
  
“You’re going to the doctor?”  
  
“What part of that was confusing?”  
  
“You just told me you ripped wires out of the wall!”  
  
“We did that after we made the appointment,” Killian reasoned, and David’s face looked questionably pale. Emma wasn’t entirely sure he was still breathing. “Did you come here on your lunch break to make sure we weren’t dead?”  
  
“What gave me away?”  
  
“The badge on your hip was a pretty good tell.”

David hummed, but it still sounded distracted and his eyes kept darting towards Emma. “I don’t need a doctor’s note.”  
  
“That’s good because I totally wasn’t going to get you one.”

“Yeah, I figured,” he muttered, taking another step into the apartment and it wasn’t easy for all three of them to occupy the same few inches of space, but they figured it out and Emma smiled when David pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Mary Margaret’s going to lose her mind at dinner tonight, you realize that?”  
  
Emma nodded. “I’m fully prepared for that.”

And, honestly, it wasn’t really a lie. They’d already decided she was awful at lying. There was no point in lying when Emma was, almost painfully, aware of just how much Mary Margaret was going to lose her mind at dinner.

She knew they all were – the whole goddamn team and probably Mr. and Mrs. Vankald and Emma was ready for it.

She was.

She was happy and thrilled and the living embodiment of the word incandescent, even with wires hanging out of her wall.

But it all changed as soon as she sat on exam table paper and the stupid thing ripped under her and Emma hoped that wasn’t some kind of twisted sign from the universe, because they kept winning things and getting things and she wasn’t sure she took a single breath from the time the doctor walked into the room until the moment she asked if they wanted an ultrasound.

“It’s not necessary,” she explained, but Emma’s lungs felt like they were on fire and she could see Killian’s jaw clench. “You’re in perfect health, but it’s up to you. We can wait until your next appointment or we can...get on with it.”  
  
“Get on with it,” Emma echoed. The doctor shrugged.

“It’s up to you.”  
  
“Swan?” Killian asked softly, and she could barely hear him, but that might have been because she was so focused on not squeezing his hand in half. There were still bruises there. “It’s up to you, love.”  
  
She nodded.

The jelly, goo, _whatever_ the doctor slathered on her stomach was freezing cold and the whole thing was a little surreal – like Emma was watching it in some out of body experience, but still feeling all of it and Killian kept tapping his thumb against her wrist.

She really needed to breathe.

“Ah,” the doctor said triumphantly. Killian hissed when Emma’s grip tightened. “There we are.”

“We,” he repeated, and if Emma weren’t having some kind of actual meltdown she would have teased him for the crack in his voice.

“Genetics, Cap,” she muttered. “Genetics.”

The doctor looked confused, eyeing them with something that felt like concern for their overall wellbeing, but they were both still a little jet-lagged and Emma was starving _all the time_ – except when the Uber had driven by some food cart on Columbus Ave and she was fairly convinced she was going to die from the smell.

But that was neither her nor there.

“I was speaking in the more metaphorical we,” the doctor said, as if that would do anything to get rid of the look on Killian’s face. Emma tried not to laugh. “But, uh,” she nodded towards the screen next to her and the tiny blob of _something_ that was flickering there. “If you look right here...you were right, Ms. Swan, about seven weeks.”

“Oh,” Emma breathed.

She’d wish she said something slightly more emotional or concrete later, when the realization had sunk into her toes and probably her soul or something equally absurd, but in the moment she was far too busy crying and staring at the screen and listening to the way Killian’s breath caught to be worried about appropriate reactions to seeing their kid for the first time.

_Their kid_.

“Swan,” Killian whispered, and his voice shook on her name, eyes a bit glossier than normal when she finally tore her eyes away from the screen.

Emma shook her head, which, really was the dumbest thing she could have done, but her heart appeared determined to beat its way out of her chest and there was still freezing cold goop on her stomach and a doctor staring at them like they’d collectively lost their minds.

So, really, it made sense when Killian bent down and kissed her.

“I love you,” he whispered, thumb brushing away tears as quickly as they came. “More than anything.”

“I love you, too.”

He’d never let go of her hand. Or the other way around.

Whatever.

Semantics weren’t important.

There was more to it all – another talk with the doctor and suggestions to use ginger to help fight off the morning sickness that seemed to last all day, and more tests than Emma was aware existed in modern medicine – but they walked out of the office with more than one copy of the ultrasound in their hands and a date firmly planted in the back of their minds.

Emma didn’t change out of the team-branded shirt before dinner.

And Killian couldn’t quite keep the smile off his face when he noticed, standing outside the Garden after not-really-morning skate and Emma’s meeting with a clearly flustered Merida, and he wouldn’t let her hold her own bag.

“You’re going to give yourself a heart attack,” Emma mumbled, climbing into the backseat of the cab he hailed. “This can’t be good for several different internal organs.”  
  
He grinned, giving the driver an address and they were absolutely going to hit traffic. “You really do not need to worry about my internal organs, Swan. I skated perfectly fine today. Better than, in fact.”  
  
“That’s not what I meant at all and you know it.” 

“I do,” Killian nodded, and he held his arm up expectantly when Emma stayed firmly on her side of the backseat. “Ah, don’t make me ask, Swan.”

“You’re clingy.”

He hummed, cheek brushing over the top of her head when he nodded, but his arm felt pretty goddamn fantastic around her shoulders and the doctor’s eyes had widened when they’d asked for so many printouts of one ultrasound.

They didn’t say anything for a moment, Emma’s eyes fluttering because he was warm and comfortable and they weren’t really moving in Midtown traffic at rush hour, but her head snapped up when she heard Killian’s voice.  
  
“What?”  
  
He blushed. “I just...I love you.”  
  
“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that a few times since we got home.”  
  
“No, no, I just…”

It wasn’t very often that he stumbled over the words, and Emma’s whole body did something absurd at that – butterflies and questionably quick heartbeat and her hand was flat on his cheek as soon as the thought entered his mind. “I’ll let Mer e-mail the season-tickets,” she promised. “She can recount them all with a detailed rehash of the New York Rangers first line exploits in South Korea and then we can auction off signed merch and make a shit ton of money for charity. That work for you?”  
  
Killian laughed, or possibly just exhaled, pressing his lips on the inside of Emma’s wrist and she didn’t have her laces anymore, but she was fairly positive he knew what he was doing. “Yeah,” he agreed. “That works for me. Although maybe not all the exploits. Don’t want to get fined.”

“Obviously.”

They were late, Killian waving off the driver when he started to apologize and question the state of the New York Rangers penalty kill in the same breath.

“We’ll see what we can do,” Killian promised, grabbing Emma’s bag and ignoring her laughter as he closed the cab door behind her. “Not a word, Swan,” he warned. “Arthur's got to move Sean off the kill. It’s embarrassing.”  
  
“Aye, aye, Cap,” she saluted back, and the reflexes were on full display again, fingers around her wrist and bag dropped unceremoniously on the sidewalk when he tugged her flush against his chest. Her laughter got louder.

“And you were accusing me of thinking too highly of my own jokes before.”

“That’s because I was right,” Emma said, but her voice shook and his fingers had already found their way under the bottom of her jacket and she couldn’t _think_ when he kissed just behind her ear. “God, you’ve got to stop that or we’re never going to go inside.”

“That’s not exactly a bad thing.”  
  
“It’s a party.”  
  
“I miss vacation.”  
  
“You didn’t believe me when I called it that.”  
  
“Ah, well, sometimes I enjoy teasing you,” Killian admitted, leaning back to look at her, and Emma should have been better prepared for the breadth of emotions there. She wasn’t.

The butterflies were getting stronger.

They were probably forming some kind of coup.

“Yeah, sometimes,” she mumbled, and there were several increasingly sentimental and decidedly clingy sentences on the tip of her tongue. Because she was kind of dreading this three-game swing and her desk chair had apparently evolved into some kind of torture device while they’d been at the Games because she couldn’t find a single comfortable way to sit that afternoon and the doctor told her to drink less hot chocolate.

“Swan?” Killian asked softly. Open book and a distinct inability to lie to her fiancé were both vastly overrated.

Emma shook her head, but she didn’t get the chance to actually say anything, another voice and another shout and Killian nearly growled when they both realized who it was.

“KJ,” Anna snapped from the doorway. “Are you kidding me? You want to stop attacking your girlfriend for half a second? Come inside and let Emma sit down.”

“Fiancée,” he corrected, and Anna’s nearly fell over. “If you want to get technical, Banana.”

“I’d really love to get technical, actually.”  
  
“What you doing here?”

“That’s rude, KJ.”  
  
“Weren’t you in Colorado this afternoon?”  
  
“Yes, that’s how air travel works.”  
  
He glared at her, but Anna didn’t back down – regaining her traction after the technicalities were thrown around in SoHo – and her answering smile probably could have rivaled several suns in a variety of universes.

Emma swore her hair got redder.

“I wanted to be here,” she muttered, yanking on the zipper of Killian’s jacket when they finally got to the top of the stairs. “El and Liam obviously couldn’t, so I offered my miles and my phone’s ability to FaceTime and here I am ready for as much familial joy as we can muster.”

“An appropriate amount of familial joy,” Killian said, and Emma got the distinct impression he was doing it to quiet her nerves and the butterflies and they really must have set an ultrasound printout record. “You didn’t say anything to Mr. and Mrs. V, right, Banana?”  
  
Anna punched him. “KJ, are you serious?”  
  
“That’s a fair question!”  
  
“God, you are the worst. No, of course I didn’t say anything to Mom and Dad! Who do you think I am? And El would kill me. Telepathically. With her mind.”  
  
“How would she know?”  
  
“KJ!”

“Yeah, that’s probably true,” he admitted, but his arm tightened around Emma’s shoulders and she could already smell something baking and hear laughter around the corner. “Are Locksley and Scarlet here yet?”  
  
“Locksley is. I have no idea where Scarlet is.”  
  
“Here, here,” a voice called from the end of the block and Will was out of breath by the time he skidded to a stop in front of the slightly icy bottom step. “Shit, Cap, tell Mr. and Mrs. V to salt their sidewalk.”  
  
“I think the city is responsible for that,” Belle said, tucked against Will’s side. “Oh, hey, Anna, I thought you were in Colorado!”  
  
Anna rolled her eyes. “That was the rumor, apparently. Whatever, I’m mostly here for the baked goods.  
  
“There are baked goods?” Will asked.

“Did you lose your sense of smell in South Korea?”  
  
“Wow, Anna, you’re hysterical. Side-splitting humor. I’m laughing. Can you see how much I’m laughing?”

“Shut up, Scarlet,” Killian muttered, and Anna’s eyes were going to get stuck mid-roll. “Can we come inside now, Banana or you want to keep dishing out insults?”  
  
“I’m fairly positive I can do both of those things at the same time, KJ. And it’s way more fun when Scarlet is involved.”

Will did something with his face – and his hand, drawing a quiet reprimand out of Belle and another string of insults out of Anna and if Emma weren’t slightly nervous and a little nauseous she probably would have laughed.

“C’mon, Vankald,” Will muttered, twisting around Killian and into the foyer. “If Emma doesn’t sit down at regular intervals, Cap actually starts to steam and that’ll probably just freak out your parents. And he’s on edge because of the doctor.”  
  
“What?” Anna screeched, and Emma wasn’t sure if she mumbled _oh my god_ or Killian did. The semantics of that didn’t matter much either.

“God, Banana, take seventy-six deep breaths. Scarlet, how did you know that? And how did Locksley get down here before us?”  
  
Will shrugged. “Gina probably glared at their Lyft driver. And uh...Mary Margaret told Ruby who told A who told me? She thought you’d be late to skate or blow off PT.”  
  
“Did you blow off PT?” Emma asked sharply, and it was starting to get very cold on that top step.

“No,” Killian promised. “She thought I would because she’s not here, but she’s probably as good at telepathically killing people as El is, so I figured there was no point in risking it.”  
  
“Not with impending fatherhood ahead of you,” Anna added softly, sticking her tongue out when Killian sighed dramatically.

“Is it impending if it’s happening now?” Emma asked. Anna made a noise that was not human. Even Will gasped. “Aw, c’mon, you guys knew that. Everyone knows.”  
  
“Except Mom and Dad,” Anna said.

Emma’s stomach did not stay where it was supposed to. The butterflies were plotting world domination at this point.

Killian glanced at her – and then back towards Will and he _glared_ at Anna – but he didn’t actually say anything and Emma wasn’t entirely sure what she was so inconsistently nervous about. She wished her body would make up its goddamn mind.

That probably had something to do with hormones too.

She should have asked the doctor more questions.

And she was right – Mrs. Vankald had baked and there was enough food to feed several NHL teams let alone the first line crammed into the brownstone’s dining room. There was talking and laughing and more food, and Mr. Vankald brought up _hat trick_ no less than twenty-seven times over the course of dinner.

It was good. No, that wasn’t enough. It was better than good. It was nice and as familial as promised and Anna kept taking pictures, sending them to Elsa seemingly every two seconds.

It was all those adjectives and then some, particularly when Mrs. Vankald asked to see Emma’s ring, a small smile on her face.

Mary Margaret might have squealed.

“Oh, wait, wait, wait,” Anna said quickly, and Emma couldn’t believe she’d ever put her phone away. “This should be FaceTime’d right? Right, KJ?”

She eyed Killian meaningfully, Emma’s lungs doing that less-than-pleasant burning thing when she refused to keep breathing like a normal human being, and he didn’t answer quickly enough.

Mrs. Vankald tilted her head in confusion. “Killian?” she asked. “Is everything ok?”  
  
“Everything’s fine,” Emma answered, holding her left hand out and she had no idea who was crying. It might have been everyone. Mary Margaret might have been sobbing.

“Oh, it’s gorgeous,” Mrs. Vankald said, her fingers soft when they held onto Emma’s. “That’s...I’m so happy for both of you.”

And the butterflies evolved again – twisting and flying and fluttering in the back of Emma’s throat, a mix of emotions and nerves and everything and maybe that was the problem.

Everything.

All of it happening, simultaneously and never-ending, and she was so goddamn incandescently happy, she was half certain her whole body was going to explode into confetti at some point, but Emma was also a little overwhelmed and they hadn’t really planned on any of this.

They just asked for two dozen copies of their first ultrasound.

God, that really had to be a record.

“We should toast, don’t you think?” Mr. Vankald asked, appearing with a bottle in one hand and a plate of baked goods in the other. Killian tensed behind Emma. “What? We...there’s champagne.”

It was like someone had pulled the oxygen out of the room or cast some kind of freezing spell, all of them stuck stock-still with wide eyes and Mary Margaret had her hand over her mouth.

Emma’s stomach flipped.

“Emma,” Mrs. Vankald said slowly, and she could almost hear the gears working in her head. “Are you alright?”  
  
“Fine, fine, I’m just...just need some air.”

She moved before anyone could respond, and she couldn’t actually go outside because it was still freezing out and Killian would actually _explode_ if he realized Emma was anywhere that wasn’t perfectly temperature controlled.

She wound up on the staircase in the foyer, the voices quiet down the hall and Mary Margaret was talking, playing distraction and decoy and Phillip might have been talking about his and Aurora’s wedding plans.

“Hey.”  
  
Emma’s head snapped up to find Robin staring cautiously at her, a smile tugging at the ends of his lips. “Hey,” she repeated. “What are you...is Killian…”  
  
“Fine, fine, trying to answer Mr. and Mrs. V’s rather impressive amount of questions without actually answering them, but he’s had enough media training. I think it’s Lucas’ proudest moment, honestly.”

Emma’s laugh was shaky at best, but her lungs appreciated the burst of oxygen she provided them. “Do you think I can just blame hormones for everything?” she asked, and Robin’s entire expression shifted when he smiled.

“For the next nine months at least.”  
  
“I’m already about a month and a half in.”  
  
“Ah, technicalities,” he promised, dropping down next to her. “You know, when Marian was expecting Roland, I was a mess. Constantly worried and terrified of being on the road and it was…” He shook his head, licking his lips, and Emma tried not to blame hormones for the tears in her eyes. “And I didn’t really have anyone when it was…”  
  
The rest of the sentence hung in the air around them – when it was _over_ and he was alone with an infant and a professional hockey career and the tears were warm when they landed on Emma’s cheeks.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

Robin shook his head. “That’s not your fault. And not why I came out here. I’m not trying to ruin the mood of the celebration.”  
  
“I think I did a pretty good job of that, actually.”  
  
“Nah, freaked Cap out a little bit, but you might have to get used to that.”  
  
“Yeah, I kind of figured,” Emma admitted. “Scarlet was joking about sitting schedules, but I think Killian’s actually started considering those now that the idea’s been planted.”  
  
“I’ve got no doubt. That’s not a bad thing, either.”  
  
“I know. And I know I can’t really blame the hormones for freaking out, but I wasn’t entirely expecting champagne and do you think Mrs. Vankald is real? Like a real, human person?”  
  
Robin’s laugh echoed off the walls of the foyer and the very fancy banister next to them and Emma had to check and make sure the photos just underneath hadn’t fallen on the floor. “You know sometimes I wonder,” he admitted. “It would take some kind of saint to raise Cap and Liam at the same time. But, uh, I think she did a pretty fantastic job. Her and Mr. V. They’re…”  
  
“Next level?”  
  
“Yeah, exactly that.”

Emma hummed in the back of her throat, tugging on the ends of her hair and the ring around her neck and she knew there was more to this conversation. “It’s been so different,” Robin murmured, soft enough that Emma wasn’t sure she heard him at first. “Cap, I mean. He’s...when he got hurt, we thought that was it. He shut down. Sat upstairs in that room and wouldn’t get on the ice and I thought he was going to check me into the wall when I got here.”  
  
“Wait, what?”  
  
“That’s Liam’s fault, really, he taught Cap how to do this thing with his stick right under a guy’s shoulder blade and--”

“--No, no, that’s not what I meant,” Emma interrupted. “You came here? To do what?”  
  
“Get Cap back on the ice,” he shrugged. “That’s...Cap never mentioned that.”  
  
It wasn’t a question, but Emma shook her head anyway. “Nah, I think he’s kind of ashamed of it?” That was a question. She squeezed one eye closed. “He’s a bit of a perfectionist, y’know?”  
  
“Yeah, a bit. Scarlet would have several other opinions about it, but he lived with Cap, so he’s got a whole slew of stories. But, uh, yeah, I came and told him to get his shit together. HIs life wasn’t over, even when he thought it had to be, even after he thought he’d ruined everything.”  
  
“Liam’s injury wasn’t his fault.”  
  
“I don’t know that he’ll ever truly believe that,” Robin muttered, a note of _something_ on the edge of his voice. “But that’s kind of where I’m going with this and why I understand how you ended up on these steps.”  
  
“Yeah?”

Robin nodded, and the teasing glint in his eye was far too similar to Roland’s. “Cap thought everything was over, but we got him out of that room and back on the ice and he’s finally starting to realize that there’s even more away from the ice. That’s because of you. And I know he’s worried because shit can wrong and sometimes it does go wrong, but sometimes it’s…”

He exhaled, that same smile on his face when he met Emma’s gaze. She was just going to cry for the rest of the night.

“Sometimes it’s absolutely incredible,” Robin finished. “And you think you’re going to be alone forever, but you stumble into a city and a team and a family that inadvertently freaks you out with champagne toasts.”  
  
“Was it that obvious?” Emma asked.

“Painfully.”  
  
“Jeez. I should apologize.”  
  
“Nah,” Robin objected, bumping his shoulder against hers familiarly. “But neither one of you are alone in this. Maybe too not alone, honestly.”  
  
“Those double negatives.”  
  
“You totally kept up.”  
  
Emma nodded, smile feeling a bit more natural and pulse a bit more normal and she wasn’t even surprised to hear another set of footsteps coming towards them.

Mary Margaret’s eyes were red. “You ok?” she asked, and Emma nodded with a honesty that was equal parts nice and a little surprising. “Scarlet is telling slightly out of place jokes and recounting your ability to pick locks to the Vankalds in an attempt to distract them.”  
  
“Oh my God,” Emma groaned. Robin kept laughing. “Is Killian…”  
  
“Fine, fine, appropriately deflected and then started muttering something about ginger and searching the cabinets and he kind of lost me after that.”  
  
“Morning sickness,” Emma and Robin said at the same time. Mary Margaret’s eyes widened.

“I know some things,” Robin shrugged. “Like how Mary Margaret’s been dying to stare at your ring for hours.”

Mary Margaret gasped and Emma nearly cackled, but they’d been holed up in some quasi vacation for three days post-Games and her ring was stupid gorgeous.

“Lucas told me,” Robin explained. “She got very chatty while trying to decide who to call to break down Cap and Emma’s door.”  
  
“David made a pretty good dent,” Emma muttered, groaning when Mary Margaret nearly ripped her wrist out of its socket. “Jeez, Reese’s, my hand’s not going anywhere.”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Mary Margaret mumbled. “I’m just…”  
  
“Excited?” She nodded. “Yeah, me too.”

They sat there for another five minutes, Mary Margaret staring at Emma’s ring like she knew how to describe luminosity or what a carat was, asking questions about wedding planning and trying, rather obviously, to get Emma’s nerves under control.

It totally worked.

And none of them were surprised when Killian walked into the lobby, tongue pressed on the side of his cheek and his left hand stuck in his hair.

“Scarlet’s started talking about that one kid who kept trying to talk to me while I was checking him, so I figured that was my cue to leave.”

“Someone was trying to talk to you while you were checking him?” Mary Margaret asked. “In the Olympics?”  
  
“They wanted his autograph,” Emma explained. “He’s super famous and important.”  
  
“Makes sense.”  
  
Killian didn’t object, but his eyes flitted towards Emma and she should probably apologize to him. “Well,” Mary Margaret said, standing up abruptly and none of them were very good at subtle. “This is probably the point where we go and make sure Rol and Henry aren’t trying to play hockey in the hallway, right?”  
  
“Too late,” Killian said, nodding towards the sound of a crash. “The house is used to it.”  
  
“Mrs. V is honestly a saint.”  
  
“That too.”  
  
Robin nodded, Mary Margaret already halfway towards the kitchen and Emma needed to learn some breathing exercises or something. She scrunched her nose, twisting the ring around her neck, and Killian appeared have become some kind of statue at some point.

“I think it’s about time little Vankald and I had a serious discussion about her boyfriend’s inability to provide me with an adequate amount of stick-tape every night," Robin said pointedly.

“Yeah, Banana will love that,” Killian muttered, as Robin clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re as subtle as two tons of bricks.”  
  
“And one threat to check you down the staircase and into oncoming traffic.”

Killian blinked, a reference Emma didn’t entirely understand, but she had a pretty good hunch and Roland had absolutely broken something in the hallway. “Where did he even get a stick?” Emma asked as soon as Robin was gone, working a quiet sound out of Killian. “Roland. And I’m assuming Henry. Do they both have sticks?”  
  
“I’m at least ninety-nine percent positive Banana found them.”  
  
“From the Garden?”  
  
He shook his head, sinking down next to her and tugging her fingers away from her ring. “Nah, they were downstairs. One of them’s got my initials on it.”  
  
“You put your initials on your stick?”  
  
“To make sure Liam couldn’t use it. Mine had more goals.”  
  
“Ah, naturally.”  
  
“He was more of a set-up guy anyway,” Killian reasoned, and his fingers fit very nicely in between hers. Emma focused on that. It helped settle the butterflies. “Are you alright, Swan?” he asked, the question sounding far too loud and far too cautious for the number of sonograms sitting in her bag a few feet away.

“Yeah, I think so. I’m...are you…”  
  
“You’ve got to finish the sentences, love.”  
  
“I know, I know,” she mumbled, and she didn’t think she imagined the way his hand tightened. “Ok, I’m going to say something and it’s not bad, per se, but--”  
  
“--Emma.”  
  
“Oh my God, you can’t just do that.”  
  
Killian widened his eyes, and it was way too much blue and even more feeling, but Emma’s lungs continued to do their job and her stomach stayed where it was supposed and she wasn’t even surprised when he tugged her hand up to brush his lips under her _other_ ring.

God.

“It all happened really quickly, didn’t it?” Emma asked, not entirely appreciating the way her voice sounded. “And I know I keep circling around on freakouts here, but I’m really considering blaming hormones forever and, like, even after we have this kid and--”

She didn’t finish. That was probably for the best. She’d lost track of her point as soon as Killian started kissing her again.

They were sitting on different steps, so the angles were a bit off, Emma twisted and Killian trying to lean up, with his weight resting on his left hand and that couldn’t have been good for the bruises that had started looking a little green two days before.

He didn’t let go of her hand, but Emma’s fingers still managed to find their way into his hair and it was a goddamn disaster of teeth and lips and whatever the hell he was doing with his tongue, tracing it over her bottom lip until she was fairly positive she was actually melting on the Vankald’s staircase.

That would probably make this whole impending grandparent thing kind of awkward.

And, like, family holidays.

They got family holidays now – on some sort of indefinite basis.

“God, we’ve really got to stop answering major life questions with makeouts,” Emma mumbled, but the point got kind of lost when she hadn’t actually moved her mouth away from Killian’s.

She could feel his smile as easily as she could hear it, a whole other level of _happily ever after_ , and maybe she wouldn’t freak out about the rest of their lives for, like, at least a week after this.

“I love you,” he said, and for all the times he’d told her that in general and that day, this one felt decidedly different. It felt like a promise and something bigger than that and his fingers were soft on her cheek when she started _fucking crying_ again.

“Was that the answer?”  
  
“That and the makeouts.”  
  
Emma laughed, sliding down the stair and rolling her eyes when Killian groaned at the unnecessary risk. “Heart attack,” she mumbled. “Blood pressure. Something about stress being detrimental to scoring goals.”  
  
“I don’t think that’s an actual scientific study.”  
  
“I’m going to find one. Or use you as my subject.”

“Seems a little devious, honestly,” Killian said, slinging an arm around her. “It’s quick, Swan, or quicker than previous plans. But...it’s good. The best. Right?”  
  
“Are you asking me for confirmation?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
She pulled back at the quick response – all three letters feeling like they were hanging in front of her face and waiting for her approval, but Emma had never been good at talking or discussing and they were so goddamn good at kissing.

It felt wrong to break the streak, anyway.

“Did you totally know?” she asked, a few moments later. They would have to do something about Killian’s hair before they went back into the dining room.

He nodded. “I had a fairly good feeling. And I get it, Swan, I do. I am...terrified isn’t the right word, but it’s...the rest of our lives, right?”  
  
“You’ve got to stop checking for confirmation. I'm sorry for freaking out.”

“I spent an entire international flight looking up facts about brain activity and joints and how early kids could get on the ice. I think we’re on fairly even footing, Swan.”  
  
She bit her lip so she didn’t do something absolutely absurd like giggle again or possibly start sobbing, but neither of those seemed like options the world wanted her to have and Emma was incredibly in love with her fiancé.

She kept calling him that in her head.

It was nice.

“All-time leading goal scorer,” she muttered. “Scarlet really ran interference on the Vanakalds?”

“Lucas helped. Lots of Olympic stories and something about luge. Locksley and Mary Margaret tag-team on the supportive speech?”  
  
Emma shook her head. “Robin ran solo for awhile, actually. I kind of forgot it was all something he’d been through before, you know? Hockey and a kid and figuring it all out.”  
  
“He needs to update his hope speeches,” Killian muttered, but he couldn’t quite get enough venom in his voice to make it sound like he was actually upset. And he couldn’t seem to stop touching Emma, fingers tracing over her shoulder and her side and ghosting over the front of her stomach. “That hasn’t changed in several years.”  
  
“Ah, well, tried and true, right? And maybe he can get some tips from Reese’s.”  
  
Killian grinned, kissing her quickly and his hand hadn’t moved. “We should probably explain your aversion to champagne, Swan.”  
  
“Yeah, probably. I’m not...I’m not running anywhere, I promise, just trying to process having it all, you know?”

“I know, love. That makes two of us. C’mon, before Banana starts complaining about using up all her data.”

It took a couple moments to get everyone back into their designated seats in the dining room and several different phones were playing several different Olympic highlights, Roland climbing on top of Killian as soon as he sat down.

Mrs. Vankald looked nervous.

“So, uh,” Mr. Vankald started, sitting at the head of the table, and Emma could just make out Liam laughing from the FaceTime in Colorado. Elsa sounded like she told him to be quiet. Anna was barely holding onto her phone. “Can you get them to be quite?” Mr. Vankald asked, nodding towards the screen and there were muttered _sorry, Mr. V_ and _sorry, Dad_ from several thousand miles away.

“I’m sorry about before,” Emma said. “But, well--”  
  
“--It’s not just an engagement, is it?” Mrs. Vankald asked, and Emma shook her head. Killian’s hand found hers underneath the table.

“I’m pregnant.”

Anna dropped her phone – several exclamations and curses from Colorado and no one apologized to Henry or Roland because they were all too busy screaming and shouting and cheering and no one was sitting down anymore.

Emma squeezed Killian’s hand.

Or the other way around.

Neither one of them let go.

Mr. Vankald moved first, stepping around the table to shake Killian’s hand and pull Emma into a tight hug. “That’s wonderful news,” he said, voice gruff and no one in that dining room had any control over their emotions.

“There’s, uh….there’s more,” Killian muttered softly. Emma was briefly concerned for the state of Mrs. Vankald’s eyes.

It couldn't have been safe for them to be that wide.

“It’s not bad,” Emma promised, practically shouting the words at the crowd around them. “Really. It’s more of a request?”  
  
“What kind of request?” Mr. Vankald asked.

Emma felt Killian take a deep breath behind her. “Well, it’s way too early to know for sure, but we went to doctor today and…” The room exploded in another round of noise, Elsa’s cry probably doing damage to everyone’s ears, but Killian couldn’t glare at all of them and he only let go of Emma’s hand to wrap it around her waist, fingers toying with the end of her team-branded t-shirt. “None of you are getting the pictures if you’re all going to be assholes about this.”

“There are pictures?” Mary Margaret whispered, Ruby behind her with both her hands over her mouth and tears in her eyes.

Killian nodded. “Yeah, way too many honestly, but you’re all distracting me from my point.” He turned, another deep breath and Mrs. Vankald was biting her lip. “It’s way too early to know,” he repeated, “but, we were thinking if it’s a boy, we’d like to name him…Matthew.”

Anna was going to do permanent damage to her phone.

Mrs. Vankald sat down.

“Oh,” she muttered, hands shaking slightly to try and brush the tears away, and Emma didn’t quite push Killian forward, was probably some kind of joint effort, but he moved and he was crouched in front of Mrs. Vankald, and Will might have been taking pictures.

“Anna’s too busy crying and trying to make sure El sees this to do it,” he reasoned when Emma glanced at him questioningly.

Mrs. Vankald rested her hand on Killian’s cheek, a small smile on her face and Emma couldn't remember seeing Mr. Vankald look like that – as if the entire world had been righted on its axis and nothing would ever be wrong again.

It all kind of felt like that.

Happily ever after or happily ever...the rest of their lives.

“Of course,” Mrs. Vankald mumbled. “Of course. That’s…”  
  
“Thank you,” Mr. Vankald finished, shaking his head before Killian could get his objection out. “It’d be an honor, my boy.”

No one really stopped crying, and the baked goods were almost _unfairly_ good, which almost begged the question why they even still tried making bread pudding at Christmas, but Emma forget the question by the time they passed out sonogram photos and she was going to make fun of whatever noise Ruby made as soon as her eyes landed on the little blob-type thing for the rest of her life.

“The doctor thought we were insane,” Emma said. “We just kept asking for more.”  
  
“Yeah, well, you guys are super weird,” Ruby countered, but the insult didn’t land when she was sniffling. “Was there...you’re supposed to get some kind of due date, right?”  
  
“Why do you know that?”

“Did you not?”  
  
“You’re avoiding the question.”  
  
“I’m good at my job.”  
  
Emma rolled her eyes, but she was still smiling and she wasn’t quite dreading the road trip when an entire downtown brownstone was clutching seven-week sonograms like they’d been dipped in gold. “Start of next season,” she answered. “October. ‘Ish.”  
  
“So just in time for a title defense, huh?” Will asked. “No jinx.”  
  
“No jinx,” Emma repeated.

She fell asleep in the backseat of the cab, her head on Killian’s shoulder and his arm around her waist. “Just tell him to keep driving around,” she mumbled. “Put that contract extension to good use.”  
  
“Yeah, I think that’s what college funds are for, Swan,” Killian chuckled. He kept his arm around her as they moved into the building, nodding in response to another critique of the penalty kill and _make sure you get that push in the standings, huh_ , and Emma barely opened her eyes while they were in the elevator.

She wasn’t quite sure how they got to bed, simply content that they had, pillows kicked onto the floor and blankets twisted between them, and the only thing she’d noticed was the sonogram on the fridge door.

“I love you,” Emma mumbled, mostly into the pillow under her head, but Killian kissed just behind her ear and she knew he heard.

“I know, Swan. I love you, too.”  
  
It was the best she slept since they got back from the Games.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a very long time coming with several different requests for Emma and Killian telling the Vankalds that they were going to have a kid. And name him after Mr. Vankald. If you guys aren't on Tumblr (or didn't see the proclamation) I have a ton of backlogged Blue Line one shots in my Docs, so I'm going to post once a week on Sunday from here on out. 
> 
> If you're interested in seeing anything, that's more than legit. Leave a comment or come flail with me on Tumblr: http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/


	9. Sticking to the Color Scheme

“Not a word.”  
  
“I said no words, Cap.”   
  
“You were thinking them.”

“I was not. I was considering thinking them, but then I decided I’d rather not die before we could possibly clinch the East and that’d ruin whatever fairy tale we’re running with here.”

Killian glanced over his shoulder, stuffing his gloves into the corner of his locker and there wasn’t really that much room in his locker. There wasn’t really much hockey equipment in his locker. There were, however, several photos and hand-drawn pictures and the most recent one was leaving a trail of sparkles across the entire locker room.

“Fairy tale,” Killian echoed. “Isn’t that a little sentimental for you, Scarlet?”  
  
Will shrugged, stretching his legs out and propping his feet up on the lowest shelf. “Is it not? You take your option, your kids are painfully adorable and, suddenly, we’re rolling through some kind of postseason script that’ll probably inspire a movie at some point.”   
  
“You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”   
  
“I’ve put the appropriate amount of thought into this. And you better put up your sign or Pegs is going to be really disappointed.”   
  
Killian hummed, far too aware of his five-year-old daughter’s decorating tendencies and the letters that he was, at least, ninety-eight percent positive Emma had sketched at some point the night before.

“She made one for Rook too,” Will continued, eyes darting towards Killian when he was forced to use stick tape to press the piece of paper into one of the few open corners of his locker. “It was the most goddamn adorable thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Wait backtrack a second, have you seen my kids before I have? Is that weird?”  
  
“It’s definitely weird, but they like me more and Dr. J wanted to discuss strategy on the PK. He’s got a lot of thoughts about forechecking.”   
  
Killian scoffed, something that felt like pride blooming in the center of his chest. “That’s because he’s frustrated we’re not scoring at least ten goals a game. How did you happen to see my kids before I saw my kids?”

“We just went over this, Cap. And because Gina told them they had, approximately, five minutes before Robin had to go on air and Pegs made him a good luck sign too. Although I think he got a different color scheme than we did. Something that was going to match his tie.”

“How could she possibly know what color tie he was going to wear?”

“Seriously you can’t figure out that string of communication on your own?” Will asked and Killian didn’t blink when he twisted, met with an expression somewhere between amused and all-knowing and they were probably going to get glitter on the ice.

“Ok, try and keep up,” Will grinned. “Ruby and Emma drew those letters last night at the restaurant, Rol helped outline them because, naturally they needed to be outlined, Matt thought everything should be blue, Pegs disagreed, Gina heard, promised to find out what color it should be and texted Emma when they got home. Locksley followed up with photo evidence so Pegs could make sure she picked the closest color while we were at morning skate and then went to the MSG studios when, as previously mentioned, Gina told them they could.”

“That wasn’t really that complicated,” Killian said and Will groaned, rolling his head when he made some sort of rude gesture that wasn’t quite as endearing as color coordinated artwork. “So they went across the street then?”  
  
“I thought you just said it wasn’t complicated.”   
  
“Don’t be an ass.”   
  
Will chuckled, shaking his hand out of his glove and running it over his face, the smile there genuine, like everything was, well, sparkly. And color coordinated. With well-outlined block letters and personalized pre-game messages.

God, maybe they were some kind of fairy tale.

“Holy shit,” Killian gasped, jerking towards Will and earning a pair of incredibly well-rolled eyes for his outburst. “When?”  
  
“You’re going to need to be more specific, Cap.”   
  
“When did this happen?”   
  
Will hummed in the back of his throat, squeezing one eye closed and his nails weren’t quite as perfectly colored as Killian’s, but there were still bits of blue and sparkles and they were going to inspire several different headlines if anyone saw. “Uhhhhh not last night, but the night before?”   
  
“Why are you spending so much time with my kids?”   
  
“We did this already,” Will chuckled, tugging his hand out of Killian’s grasp and shoving against his shoulder. “They like me better. And you were still here when I got uptown, probably doing something vaguely Captain-esque…”   
  
“I was on that hockey show Locksley does post-game.”   
  
“How many shows is Locksley on?”   
  
Killian shrugged, but the answer might have actually been six and Regina had outdone herself in the last few seasons.

They were all going to be set for life – with bright blue, sparkly nails.

“I feel like I should be insulted that Locksley isn’t inviting me on his shows too,” Will continued, leaning over to lace up his skates. “Whatever. I’ll score a hatty, your kids will love me more and then Locksley will have to acknowledge me.”  
  
“You realize how insane that sounds?”   
  
“Yes.”   
  
“Oh, huh,” Killian blinked. “That was not the answer I thought I was going to get. I was sure there was going to be way more banter.”

Will flashed a grin, glancing around the locker room when it started to fill up – new kids and more veterans and far more laughter than there probably should have been, all things considered, but they could clinch the East that night and things were vaguely fairy tale and, over the last few years, the New York Rangers locker room had become some kind of never-ending parade of absolutely adorable.

“I’m here to keep you on your toes, Cap,” Will muttered, pushing off his bench and catching a close-to-flying Dylan Havfrue around the waist. “Control your limbs, little man.”  
  
Dylan did not, in fact, control his limbs, laughter sounding impossibly loud even with the other footsteps approaching. Killian turned just in time for a flash of green eyes and dark hair and several incredibly potent limbs to fling themselves at him, arms wrapped tightly around his neck and a knee finding its way into his spleen.

He assumed it was his spleen.

He also assumed it was bruised.

“Daddy, daddy, daddy,” Peggy shouted and he could feel her smile when she buried her face into the crook of his neck. “Did you like your sign?”  
  
Killian tried to keep the hair out of his mouth when he answered, but that was a lost cause and he was too busy catching Emma’s eye from the other side of the room. She bit her lip lightly, trying to stop herself from smiling too wide and that was kind of a lost cause too.

She had a walkie-talkie in her hand and she looked a little tired, but that was par for the playoff course and there were Rangerstown posters everywhere.

Killian was, at least, ninety-six percent positive she’d hung half of them herself.

She’d still been in Chase Square when he walked out of the MSG Network studio across the street two nights before – balanced precariously on a vaguely rickety ladder with both Merida and Ruby spotting her. And he wasn’t really sure what had happened, but it felt like something in his brain had short-circuited and he nearly got hit by four different cabs when he ran across 7th Avenue.

Ruby didn’t appreciate that.

But it hadn’t really mattered because he was him and Emma smiled as soon as she saw him, sitting on the top step of the ladder like that wasn’t even more precarious than standing on it.

They made out in the backseat of the cab uptown – after he’d helped her hang the signs.

“Cap,” Phillip muttered, kicking at his ankles when it became incredibly obvious Peggy did not appreciate being ignored. “What’s happening with your face?”  
  
Killian blinked, trying to come up with an appropriate answer to that question, particularly when one of his kids was hanging off him and the other – decked in head to toe Rangers gear – was tucked under Phillip’s arm with an expectant look on his face that felt oddly familiar.

Emma smiled.

“He’s probably thinking about all the ladders he’s got to save people from,” she said.

“That was dangerous, Swan.”  
  
“Ruby and Merida were there.”   
  
“That does not make me feel much better,” Killian argued and Peggy moved again, a different knee finding its way into one of his kidneys. And several different ribs. He was going to be bruised before he even got on the ice.

It was worth it.

He might have been the most melodramatic part of the fairy tale. He hoped they didn’t put that in the inevitable film adaption.

“What exactly are we missing?” Phillip asked, directing Matt further into the locker room until they were both sitting on the same bench. And Phillip’s locker had a considerable amount of hand-drawn art on it as well.

“I had to hang signs before you guys could clinch and because you cold clinch and apparently the ladder was too rickety,” Emma explained.

“Had to or decided to?”  
  
“That’s not the question you should be asking.”

Phillip chuckled, glancing meaningfully Will’s direction. He nodded seriously, lower lip jutted out and Killian felt the smile on his face when he noticed the slight flush on Emma’s cheek. “Yuh huh,” Phillip grinned. “So, like, on a scale of one to ten how much did Cap freak when he found out? Actually, you know what, you don’t have to answer that. I don’t want to embarrass Cap in front of your kids.”

“You are playing with fire, Rook,” Killian growled, the vaguely ancient nickname working its way into the threat.

Phillip’s smile widened. “So what you’re really saying is like...a fifteen?”

“You want to get the puck at all or no?”  
  
“Please, you need me. And that other kid is nothing.”

“You’re only saying that because you’re pissed he’s breaking your record,” Ruby said, appearing out of seemingly nowhere with a clipboard in hand and a pen behind her ear. “And as a follow-up to that, where’s your kid, Rook?”  
  
“Ok, I have not been a rookie in nearly a decade,” Phillip sighed. “We were literally just talking about a rookie. Go bother him, Lucas.”   
  
Ruby narrowed her eyes and it looked like she grew several feet while she stared at Phillip, his lips pulled behind his teeth and Killian didn’t think he imagined the way his arm tightened around Matt. “You want to rephrase your official statement?” she asked. “Because that one was pretty shitty, honestly. Don’t let him touch the puck the entire first period, Cap.”   
  
“See, that’s that what I’m saying,” Killian said. “But seriously, Phillip, where is your kid?”

“If I say I’m not entirely sure does that make me the world’s worst father? Because I’m like only seventy-six percent positive that they’re here.”

“They are,” Emma said. “Reese’s told me she saw Aurora with someone who she assumed was Aurora’s mom and dad and an incredibly adorable kid wearing your jersey heading up to the team suite when they got here.”  
  
Phillip hummed, doing something that looked like an attempt at a wink. Ruby nearly cackled. “Oh thanks, Em,” he said. “That was definitely them. You can tell Mary Margaret her assumptions were correct.”   
  
“Good news,” Ruby mumbled. “You know what happens sometimes when you assume."

Emma glared at her. “Don’t you have something better to do than make sweeping allusions to vaguely antiquated curses in front of kids?”

“They didn’t even notice,” Ruby reasoned. She pressed a kiss to the top of Matt’s hair, laughing loudly his grumbled  _c’mon Ru_. “Don’t be like that mini-Jones. You get on TV when you were across the street?”  
  
Matt shook his head, kicking his feet out and the banter was a strange pre-game routine they’d all fallen into. “No, there wasn’t enough time.”   
  
“You want me to beat up Locksley for you?”   
  
“Lucas,” Killian snapped, at the same time Emma yelled “Rubes” and Will was going to do permanent damage to his shoulders if he kept laughing while trying to make sure Dylan Havfrue didn’t end up on the floor in the middle of the New York Rangers locker room.

Merida shouted something on the walkie-talking again, something about fans and cheering and an appearance from Rangers legend Robin Locksley before puck drop.

“Oh God, did she honestly just call him a legend?” Will groaned. “Don’t let Gina hear that, she’s going to change his business cards if she knows that’s what we’re referring to him as.”  
  
“Why are you all being so difficult about this?” Emma asked, eyes flashing towards Killian and it wasn’t easy to balance Peggy when he held his arm out towards her. She moved anyway, letting her head rest against the front of his pads.

“I’m not being difficult. I'm being...practical. It’s so much work to redo business cards. Isn’t that right, Lucas?”  
  
“I was not in charge of my own business cards,” Ruby answered evenly. “I have several different assistants for that. Because I’m way more important than any of you.”   
  
“And modest too,” Phillip muttered. Ruby glared again, but he was already holding up one hand and shaking his head. “Don’t do it again, Lucas. I’m going to score at least once and assist on someone else’s goal. Two points, at least, so I can impress my kid.”   
  
“And his in-laws,” Emma added.   
  
“That’s neither here nor there.”

“Right, right, of course. Totally not part of the plan.”

“Hey, Em,” Will cut in, wincing when Dylan inadvertently elbowed him in the ear. “How many shows is Locksley on? Cap didn’t know.”  
  
Emma twisted, glancing up at him from underneath her eyelashes and, more than a decade later, that was just as distracting as ever, a few hours before puck drop. “You really don’t know?” she asked.

“It’s a lot, right?”  
  
“Four?” Ruby asked, gaze flitting around the room and they really needed to get dressed soon. Killian assumed Ruby had something vaguely vice-presidential to do. He hoped Mr. and Mrs. Vankald got along with Phillip’s in-laws in the team suite.

“It’s got to be more than four,” Killian said. “Six. A round half dozen because Gina is crazy. Don’t repeat that,” he added, mostly into Peggy’s hair. “I don’t want to get yelled at later.”

Phillip shook his head. “No, no, it’s not six. That’s insane. Who’d have time for six shows?”  
  
“Gina would make time.”   
  
“I mean that’s a fair assumption,” Ruby grinned. “But, not to repeat myself, you know what happens when you assume, Cap.”   
  
“Oh my God,” Emma groaned, fingers tapping absentmindedly on the back of Killian’s hand. “Count them. He does MSG-150, plus the post and pre-game stuff.”   
  
“You can’t count post and pre as different shows. That’s all part of the game broadcast. And MSG-150 is just part of the intermission same thing.”   
  
“Agreed,” Will said. “Anything game related only counts as one.”   
  
“That’s just because you don’t want it to be a lot numbers,” Emma pointed out. “Sounds like you’re a little threatened.”

Will tilted his head, eyebrows pulled low and Killian didn’t have to see her to know Emma was smiling. And he nearly dropped Peggy when he moved, earning another bruise for his efforts, brushing his lips over the top of her head.

The entire locker room groaned – including that other, incredibly fast rookie and both of Killian's kids.

“Hey,” Killian said, eyeing Matt with something he hoped was vaguely fatherly and not how much he wanted to make out with Emma pre-game. He didn’t really care about the number of shows Robin was inexplicably on anymore. “None of that.”  
  
Matt nodded, a twist to his lips and a flash in his eyes and he’d gotten very good at perfecting that very particular response.

“It’s three,” he said.

“What?”  
  
“Uncle Robin is on three shows. If you’re following Ru’s rules and saying that the game stuff only counts as one.”   
  
“How do you know that?”   
  
“I watch TV,” Matt shrugged. “He does the game stuff and The Hockey Show and Aunt Gina got him that fancy Locked In thing.”   
  
“That fancy Locked In thing,” Phillip echoed, working another shrug out of Matt and Killian was fairly sure there were cameras working into the locker room too. Mulan was probably on some kind of pre-game, photo gallery quest.

“Gina talked to someone in production, got them to agree to use the name Locked In for the show that used to be the coach’s show,” Emma explained. “There was a lot of discussion, a lot of debate, Gina glared at people. The usual.”  
  
Phillip nodded in understanding, but Killian mumbled  _don’t repeat that either_ in Peggy’s hair and Gina was going to murder all of them at the restaurant later that night.

Her nails were probably blue too.

“It’s only three shows,” Matt mumbled, like he’d won some kind of argument or settled some kind of debate and he probably practiced shrugging in the mirror as well.

And Killian didn’t know who laughed louder – Ruby or Phillip or even Emma, twisting into his side with both her arms wrapped around his middle.

It made his pads dig into his shoulders and the small of his back and he didn’t say anything, just hid his smile in the mixture of both Emma and Peggy’s hair.

“You’re definitely the smartest one, mini-Jones,” Ruby said, brushing far too long hair out of Matt’s eyes and tugging lightly on the front of his jersey. “Thanks for agreeing with me.”  
  
Matt muttered something that sounded like  _yeah, sure_ , but the tips of his ears had gone red and he couldn’t seem to meet anyone’s gaze, avoiding Killian’s expectant stare and possibly proud smile and Phillip was still laughing.

“Man, it’s like looking in a mirror,” Will said, hitching Dylan further up his shoulders and Killian hoped Ariel wasn’t anywhere nearby. She would yell.

“You know that doesn’t make any sense at all, right?” Emma laughed. She pulled her head away from Killian, lips still curled into a smile and he tapped his thumb on the back of her wrist – just over her laces and her nails were a slightly different shade of blue than Killian’s or Will’s.

“I think you got a few more sparkles than I did, Swan,” Killian said, nodding towards her hand. “When did you have time for that?”  
  
“We were all very well scheduled. She had a whole plan.”   
  
“For real?”   
  
Emma nodded, a camera shutter clicking a few feet away and if any of this ended up online Killian was going to break several sticks and a few whiteboards just to prove a point. “I expect a few more sparkles next time ok, little love?” he asked, somehow managing to get into Peggy’s gaze and she practically beamed in response.

“Only if you win,” Peggy said and it might have been ok if the internet got official documentation of  _that_ moment because it might have been the greatest moment and Killian was only slightly certain his heart hadn’t exploded out of his chest.

Will looked a little stunned, Ruby squeezing her eyes closed and she was absolutely on the verge of tears, but Emma’s walkie talkie made noise and they all jumped, Merida’s muttered voice sounding only vaguely stressed.

That was a step up from normal. Killian assumed it was because they’d hung the signs two nights before.

“Although,” Emma continued, brushing away Peggy’s hair from Killian’s face, “you are kind of right, Scarlet. It’s eerily similar to Killian.”  
  
“It’s the eyebrow thing,” Phillip said. He rested his head on top of Matt’s shoulder, working a not-so-quiet groan out of the kid and Killian felt a surge of affection that might get him to score his own hat trick and maybe he should have challenged Will to some kind of pre-game bet.

Will chuckled and he couldn’t sit down with Dylan hanging off his shoulder, but he could, at least, lean back and Peggy made some kind of strangled sound when he nearly ripped one of her latest works of art.

“Uncle Will,” she shouted, directly into Killian’s ear and both he and Emma mumbled some kind of reprimand under their breath. It didn’t make a difference.

There was art to protect.

“Sorry, sorry, Pegs,” Will said quickly. “The art is totally fine. I promise, kid.”  
  
She nodded enthusiastically, eyes wide and still just a bit cautious and Will grabbed more tape, some kind of precautionary measure against the creative inclinations of a five-year-old who had taken over an entire professional hockey team.

“Daddy,” she said, yanking on his pads and nearly strangling him in the process. “You never said.”  
  
Killian blinked, trying to make sure his throat hadn’t collapsed in the last four seconds and Emma answered for him. “Said what, babe?”   
  
“His sign!”   
  
“Oh, right, right, right. You know, we worked very hard on tracing those letters last night,” Emma said, glancing back at Killian and he was going to show up the rookie. He had his priorities straight. “And there was some debate about the color scheme.”   
  
“Blue is generally a safe bet,” Killian muttered. He shifted Peggy to his other side, dimly aware of several assistant coaches shouting and a few more camera clicks and they needed to go play a hockey game. “And I love the sign, Peg. You did a fantastic job.”

She smiled at him, peppering the side of his face with kisses and Killian’s entire being felt like it was going to explode – several varieties of emotions and most of them were just synonyms of happiness.

“You and Uncle Will and Rook got different ones!”  
  
Killian’s eyes flickered towards Emma – she shook her head in response, an unspoken  _she was determined_ that had basically become the subhead of Margaret Elsa Jones’ life at that point.

And no one was very good at saying no to her.

He assumed Peggy was the reason they’d been let on the set across the street before Robin was slated to do fan events and three shows in one.

“We’re totally going to win now, Pegs,” Phillip said.

Matt nearly screamed. “Don’t jinx it!”  
  
“Oh my God, it is like a mini-Cap. It’s so weird. Listen, Matt, you’ve got to do me a favor and when you play, you can’t pick twenty too, ok? Pick another number.”   
  
“Don’t pick Rook’s number, Dr. J,” Will mumbled, kicking lightly at Matt’s ankles and working a laugh out of him. “Plus seventy-six is way better. Looks good when you’re checking.”   
  
“Oh my God, Scarlet,” Killian sighed.

“We going to bet on something or what, Cap?”

“What do you want to bet on?”

Will shrugged, tilting his head and keeping an arm around Dylan. “I feel like you should get to pick since you’re just going to lose, so…”  
  
“Ok, that’s rude.”   
  
“Well, Rook claimed he was going to get at least two points, so I expect three points from you, Cap. At least.”   
  
“Three,” Killian repeated. “That’s it?”

Will gasped, nearly falling backwards off the bench when he tried to point and laugh at the same time and Killian probably would have made fun of that if he didn’t realize they were being filmed and he could hear Robin’s voice moving through the locker room.

“Awfully confident,” Emma muttered, lacing her fingers through Killian’s free hand.

Killian hummed, pressing another kiss to her hair, but Matt didn’t groan when he moved towards them. He slammed into Emma’s side, though, never quite as good on the ground as he was on ice and stopping was still a distinct work in progress.

“Three is easy,” Matt said. “Just get in front of the net, Dad.”  
  
“Yeah, Cap,” Phillip nodded. “Just get in front of the net. We’ll do the rest. And I really want to make sure Scarlet loses.”   
  
“Ok, that’s rude,” Will hissed.

Robin – and his video entourage – arrived in front of them before Killian could come up with some witty retort, pushing cameras into their faces and his tie was incredibly red.

“What the hell is this?” Killian asked, tugging on fabric and Robin couldn’t swat at his hands quickly enough. “A power tie? This is the wrong color entirely.”  
  
“Get out of here, Cap. And stop swearing in front of your kids.”   
  
“You just came at a totally inopportune time, Locksley. What are you doing here? Don’t you have a TV show to do?”   
  
“What do you think I’m doing? This is pre-game stuff.”   
  
“Part one of three,” Ruby muttered, waving a dismissive hand when Robin muttered  _what_ under his breath. “Don’t listen to them, Locksley. Scarlet, finish your terms.”   
  
“Terms,” Robin shouted. “What the hell? Guys, it’s not cool if you leave me out of the bets.”   
“Locksley you are a retired hockey player,” Killian pointed out. “A legend. If you will. And stop swearing in front of my kids.”  
  
“Who said that? The legend thing, not swearing in front of your kids. Hey guys, long time no see. Peg, the guys at the station put your picture up on set.”   
  
Peggy let out a noise between a scream and a gasp, trying to climb up and down Killian at the same time. “Really?”   
  
“I wouldn’t lie to you, kid. You’ve got to make one for Rol though. He’s super jealous of your dad’s nails.”

“Can we get back to the point, please?” Will asked. “Pegs, you’ve done a great job with the art, they should let you redecorate the Garden and wherever Rol is--”  
  
“--The national team training center, Scarlet, don’t act like you don’t know that.”   
  
“Whatever, whatever. I want at least three points, Cap and if I don’t get three points, then I get to take the lead in post.”   
  
“We do post in front of our lockers later,” Phillip muttered, but it didn’t make any difference and Ruby was already demanding to know  _what the hell that means_.

Will widened his eyes in wait, pointing meaningfully towards both Peggy and Matt, like he was reminding Killian that his kids were standing there would make some kind of difference. As if he weren’t already far more competitive than a normal, healthy person should be.

“Yeah, that’s totally fair,” Killian said. “Game on or whatever.”  
  
“Oh God, I can’t believe you just said that out loud. You get that on camera, Locksley? I want that documented for posterity so we can show it when they inevitably retire Cap’s number and the league wants hysterical videos during the inevitable ceremony.”

“You’ve put way too much thought into this,” Robin said. “Why are you thinking about Cap’s retirement ceremony? Mini-Jones is going to wear his number anyway. Obviously.”  
  
“Obviously,” Emma repeated softly, just loud enough for Killian to hear it and maybe they could find a corner of the Garden they hadn’t made out in yet.

Matt’s ears were red. Again.

They were absolutely going to clinch the East.

Will nodded, tugging Dylan along with him when he took a step into Killian’s space and Robin directed the cameras towards them. “Game on,” he said.

Robin made Will repeat the whole thing on camera – something about  _good for the fans and the internet_ – but it gave Killian a chance to shift the weight of the five-year-old still clinging to his side and direct the eight-year-old with bright red ears towards the door of the locker room and Emma had turned her walkie-talkie off at some point.

And they were, really, overflowing with traditions now, but this one might have been Killian’s favorite and he was kind of a giant sap.

“Alright,” he said, not surprised when Peggy found a way to drape herself horizontally over his shoulders. “Scouting report.”  
  
He saw Emma’s smile out of the corner of his eye, twisting the ring around her neck, and Killian couldn’t quite remember when it started exactly – probably somewhere around the time that Matt could open his eyes.

It was definitely before he could form cognizant sentences.

Emma claimed it was  _playing favorites_ again, something about how he’d gotten used to the sound of games before he was even born, and Killian probably wouldn’t have ever admitted how much that made his pulse pick up. She absolutely knew anyway.

And the websites backed her up.

It became a trend that first season after Matt was born – hours spent on the couch in their apartment and the couch in Emma’s office and it was some kind of mutual comfort thing, Matt resting on his chest with a team-provided tablet in his hand and film in the background, mumbling a steady stream of commentary and explanations into an infant’s ear.

They kept doing it with Peggy – partly because it really did seem to help both Jones kids sleep and partly because Matt resolutely refused to stop learning how hockey worked once he  _could_ form cognizant sentences – and there probably weren’t any two kids in the continental United States who knew more about the game than the Jones kids.

They watched film and dissected game play and gave Killian a scouting report before every game. It was tradition.

“The Devils block a ton of shots,” Matt started. “You won’t be able to do much from the point because they’re going to get into the lanes.”

Killian nodded. “You were pretty adamant about getting in front of the net.”  
  
“I know.”   
  
“And?”   
  
“And what? Score and beat Uncle Will in the bet.”   
  
“You’ve made it sound awfully easy,” Killian said. “Their defense doesn’t give up many goals. It’s top in the Metro or something.”

“Yeah, but not on the PK. They’re garbage on the PK. Uncle Liam said a lot of stuff about them in Norwegian and...  
  
“Hey,” Killian interrupted sharply and Matt’s eyes widened when he realized what he’d almost said. “Tell Uncle Liam to stop being such a bad influence.”

“He’s not wrong.”  
  
“Yeah, I don’t care.”     
  
Emma couldn’t quite mask her laugh, doing a pretty awful job of turning it into a sound that even resembled a cough. She tugged on the back of Peggy’s jersey, trying to pull her off Killian’s shoulders, but that was, apparently, a bigger challenge than getting into the zone against the Devils.

“Something to add, Swan?” Killian asked, ruffling Matt’s hair when he groaned as loudly as he possibly could.

She shook her head. “Absolutely nothing. Just, you know, that maybe you might have mumbled a few pointed words that weren’t in the English language during the last game against the Devils and now you’re--”  
  
He didn’t let her finish, which really wasn’t the best plan when both of their kids were standing there and they were in the middle of the hallway, which more than a decade later was still some kind of trend, and Killian really did have to finish getting dressed. He didn’t really care. He was going to kiss his wife and he could feel her smile when his lips found hers, the hint of laughter lingering in the minimal amount of air between them when one of her fingers hooked around a clasp in his pads.

“You’re a menace,” Emma mumbled, resting her forehead on his.

“Nah, a distraction at best.”  
  
“I have stuff to do.”   
  
“I have a game to play.”   
  
“Yours might be more important.”   
  
“Equal footing, love,” Killian argued and it wasn’t much of an argument because it was a bunch of absurdly sentimental, fairy-tale type of truth.

Until Matt groaned again and someone called for Killian from the locker room and they really did have things to do. Emma kissed him again before she pulled away.

“Screen ‘em,” Peggy yelled, her own laughter nearly louder than her game-time suggestions when Killian tugged her down. Her words weren’t quite words when he flipped her over, Emma rolling her eyes and that was a bit of a tradition too. The light in the hallway seemed to reflect off the sparkles on his nails. “Daddy, daddy, you’ve got to screen ‘em and then you can score!”

“Oh, yeah?”  
  
“Yeah!”   
  
“Like, at least, three goals,” Matt added, a smile on his face and belief in his words and Killian barely heard Ariel’s screech when she jogged down the hallway.

“Cap, what the hell? God, jeez, sorry Matt, sorry Pegs.’  
  
“Relax, Red, we’re fine,” Killian promised. “And you might want to refocus your frustration for Scarlet because I’m pretty sure he’s bench-pressing your kid in there.”   
  
“Are you kidding me?”

“Tattle tale,” Emma muttered, smile still on her face and ring still pinched between her fingers.

Killian made a dismissive noise, certain the smirk almost worked as soon as Emma tugged her lower lip in between her teeth. “Just reporting the facts, Swan.”  
  
“God, you’re the most annoying hockey star in the history of the world,” Ariel mumbled. The words lost a bit of their edge when she started making faces at Peggy, though, slinging an arm around Matt. Her nails were painted too. “You going to score, Cap?”   
  
“Obviously.”   
  
“Ok, there’s no need to be quite so certain about it.”   
  
“Confidence is key, Red. Stop trying to undermine my father-type lessons.”   
  
“Jeez, laying it on almost too thick, don’t you think?”   
  
“He’s a giant sap, that’s why,” Emma said, a quiet hum of agreement from Ariel. “I mean, don’t get me wrong it’s cute, but that’s totally what it is.”   
  
Matt stuck his tongue out when he nearly growled in the middle of the hallway, Peggy far too busy giggling to be impressed by her parent’s continued and inevitable flirting in Madison Square Garden hallways.

Ariel rolled his eyes. “Nice nails, Cap.”  
  
“It’s good luck,” he shrugged. “Are yours a different color?”   
  
“Nah, they’re still blue, but we had to pool resources when Pegs decided she was going to take over the entire team, you know.”

“Ah, yeah, that makes total sense.”  
  
“I think the person behind the counter at Duane Reade thought we were planning something almost nefarious, honestly. Gina and I had to buy, like, fifteen different shades of blue.”

Killian blinked, surprise settling over him and it probably shouldn’t have, particularly when Peggy smiled, twisting back onto her feet. There was hair in her face.

Fairy tale. Or whatever.

Someone called for him again and it probably wouldn’t have been a very good lesson to be late for his own game.

“C’mon guys,” Emma said, tugging Peggy back to her side. “We’ve got to get back upstairs before we make sure Uncle Robin does something vaguely legendary outside.”

He was expecting the kiss, knew it was coming and they’d already kind of made out several times already, but Killian was still kind of greedy and absurdly happy and everyone’s nails were bright blue.

“I love you,” he muttered and maybe Peggy learned how to giggle from Emma.

“I love you too. Score some goals, ok?”

They won.

Easily.

By four goals, which wasn’t really all that surprising because Matt was right and the Devils PK was exceptionally shitty, and the new coach didn’t break nearly as many whiteboards as Arthur had, but that was neither here nor there because they’d won and Killian scored and assisted on Phillip’s second goal and they won.

He didn’t, however, win the bet.

He was only slightly frustrated by that.

And that was the biggest lie he’d told since he promised he was  _done_ after his second contract extension ended because he really, really hated losing and hated losing to Will even more, even when it was a stupid bet that didn’t really mean much of anything.

“It was a close call, Cap,” Will said, making sure to nod as sarcastically as he possibly could. Killian’s phone was already ringing a few inches above his head, no doubt some incredibly pointed opinions from Liam about those turnovers in the neutral zone and the way that one check looked.

He ignored his phone.

And Will.

There were already cameras by the time he got to his locker, reporters and recorders and that one guy from Newsday who still used a pad of paper because he didn’t trust technology and Killian’s hair was still slightly damp from the shower.

And, honestly, he should have realized exactly what Will had been planning from the get-go, should have known that he’d probably teamed up with Robin as soon as Killian left the locker room, but he could feel his eyes widen as soon as he heard the voices and Peggy leapt into his lap before he’d taken a full breath.

“Hi,” she shouted, standing on his legs and tugging on the fabric on his shoulders, a precarious balancing act that was also a bit painful.

That one check had totally fucked up his right thigh.

“Hey, love,” Killian mumbled. “What are you doing here? I thought you were upstairs with Mom and M’s and Uncle David.”  
  
“Mom had to work and Ru brought us down here because Uncle Will said we could be on TV!”

“Wait, what?”

“What part of that was confusing, Cap?” Will called from the other side of the room. “I told you I was going to control post and this is how I wanted post to go.”

Matt was already talking – giving a detailed description of the Devil’s penalty kill and how important it was to wrap up the series with a strong showing like that and Killian was fairly sure he’d heard the phrase  _Cup run_ several times in quick succession.

“Hey,” Robin cut in, leaning around one of the cameras and tugging the microphone away from Matt. “No jinx.”  
  
Matt didn’t look particularly impressed. “We’re totally going to win.”   
  
“We’ve got to get you some more media training. You can’t say that kind of stuff on the post-game.”   
  
“Rol would!”

“Ah, he’s got you there, Locksley,” Phillip laughed, his own kid in his arms and Dylan a few feet away and they were all going to end up on several different backpages for whatever stunt they were currently pulling.

It’d be some kind of incredibly heartwarming scene in the movie.

“Yeah, that’s probably true,” Robin admitted. “And this is, like, full circle or something from the first Cup run.”  
  
“Can you say that, Locksley?” Killian asked. “Aren’t you supposed to be less biased now that you’re some fancy TV guy?”   
  
“Ok, I am not a fancy TV guy. I am a normal TV guy.”   
  
“Eh, how many shows do you currently have?”   
  
Robin made a less-than-mature hand gesture behind his back, careful to avoid the cameras and the reporters and Killian had to push his face into his daughter’s hair to make sure his own laugh didn’t draw too much attention.

“Shut up, Cap,” Robin muttered and none of it was very professional, but none of them had ever been very professional and they all had painfully adorable kids who wanted to talk about hockey and scoring opportunities on the MSG post-game show.

“Eloquent. No wonder they put you on forty-seven TV shows.”

“You should have been able to get four points in a four-oh game.”  
  
“You want me to get points on every goal we have?” Killian asked, flashing a grin at Peggy when she moved her hands to the front of his shirt.

“Eh, I’m just going off of previously emotional moments in the highlight reel of your career.”  
  
“That didn’t sound all that sincere.”   
  
“And that rhymed,” Will pointed out, shrugging when Killian narrowed his eyes. “Don’t do that, Cap. This is the easiest post I’ve ever done. Dr. J is some kind of hockey soothsayer because you and Emma are obsessed with this game and force-fed him those aforementioned highlight reels for the last eight years.”

“Trust me, no one force-fed anything.”  
  
“That’s probably true, actually. Whatever. I hope this becomes a thing. What do you think, Locksley? Viewership through the roof?”

“Either that or some incredibly pointed columns in several different tabloids.”

Killian scoffed when he noticed the vaguely scandalized look on several different reporter’s faces and Peggy appeared to be answering a few questions of her own.

“What are you doing, little love?” he asked, but she didn’t hear him, or was, possibly, ignoring him, staring straight into the closest camera like she’d been waiting her whole life to stage a presser after the final game of the regular season.

“Good luck,” Peggy said and it clearly wasn’t the first time she’d said those two specific words.

A reporter smiled, Robin laughing under his breath, but several other reporters looked slightly frustrated and Ruby was going to have some kind of metaphorical field day writing  _that_ particular release.

“You have to argue against it, Cap?”

Killian arched an eyebrow, holding onto his kid a bit tighter out of instinct and the reporter widened his eyes when he didn’t answer immediately. “I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about,” he said, winking at Peggy when she twisted back against him.

“It’s a pretty good color for all of you,” the reporter continued. They were talking about the goddamn nail polish.

Of course they were.

“No, no argument,” Killian shook his head. Will made some kind of absurd noise at the word, but Killian didn’t look away from the throng of reporters around his locker and he was old enough that he didn’t quite care what they printed about him anymore.

And the nail polish had absolutely been good luck – even if he hadn’t won the bet.

“No?” That question came from a different reporter and Killian shook his head before the two letters were finished and Will was still making noise, Phillip shouting a slightly muffled argument when he was forced to play jungle gym for his kid.

Phillip definitely had blue nails too.

“How many times are we going to do this?” Killian asked. “Did you want the sparkles too, is that what the issue is?”

“That’s totally what it is,” Will agreed. “Hey, hey, Michael, if you ask Pegs, I bet she’ll do your nails before we start this Cup run.”

Peggy nodded enthusiastically and Killian wasn’t sure if his heart exploded or, simply, grew forty-six sizes, but it had been that kind of day and she was already talking about different shades of blue on one hand.

“We won,” she said said again. “Good luck and Daddy scored and Rook scored and now we’re going to win a Cup!”  
  
“No jinx,” half the locker room yelled at the same time Matt shouted “I told you!”

Killian smiled when the reporters couldn't come up with another question, a flash of blonde hair leaning against the open doorway of the locker room with Ruby draped over her back.

“You can quote her on that if you want,” he said, eyes darting Emma’s direction. “And when you inevitably write your sidebar on all of this, make sure you point out how well done everyone’s nails are even after the game ended, ok? That’s a sign of a true professional.”

The headline wasn’t all that creative the next morning –  _Littlest Jones Guarantees Blueshirts Look Good Ahead of Cup Run_ – but it was almost complementary and it was difficult for Killian to be frustrated when he was too busy getting his nails redone before the start of the Cup Finals. They used extra sparkes for the first game at the Garden.

And, years later, with another Cup run ahead of them and a different Jones wearing the number twenty on center ice at the Garden, Peggy almost looked nervous, eyes ducked and voice quiet, when she asked Killian.

“For good luck?” she whispered

He felt the smile inch across his face, something sentimental and emotional and maybe the fairy tale hadn’t ever really ended – just moved to a different generation and he would have bet Will and Phillip and Robin that there was a hand drawn sign in Matt’s locker already.

“What’s the name of that color, little love?”  
  
“Dad.”   
  
“Old habits,” Killian muttered and Peggy rolled her eyes, nearly jumping the few feet between them and swinging her legs over his. “C’mon, I bet it’s got a good name.”

“Front page worthy.”  
  
“You’re kidding.”   
  
“I wouldn’t joke about something as serious as no-jinx nail polish.”   
  
“Good alliteration.”

Peggy hummed, smile tugging on her lips and her smile looked exactly like Emma’s. The eyebrow thing, however, was all him. “The glitter is called set in stone.”  
  
“There’s glitter too?”   
  
“There’s no point if there isn’t glitter.”   
  
“Ah, of course,” Killian laughed, shifting so he didn’t end up with a foot in several different internal organs. “Alright, no time like the present, huh?”   
Peggy rolled her eyes at the cliché, but that was another old habit and they were a team full of traditions and family and she muttered the scouting report under her breath while she worked, promising  _as long as MD doesn’t crash into the boards too often, it’ll be fine_.

It was – good and great and goddamn historic and every single one of them had bright blue nails when the Rangers won another Stanley Cup.

As tradition dictated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen. I love TJ Oshie and TJ Oshie loves his kids and once did an interview with his nails painted because his daughter painted them and if that's not the most Killian Jones thing you've ever heard, then I don't know what to tell you. 
> 
> This is the very last season Killian plays, so ages: Matt is eight, Peggy is five and change, Roland is 17, Henry is 22, the Vankald-Jones twins are 14, Lizzie Vankald-Jones is ten. 
> 
> Blue Line updates still coming on Sundays. Come flail on Tumblr if you're down: http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/


	10. Stopping Is Harder Than Starting, Part One

It happened quickly.

One second they were cheering and it was fine, everything was fine – they were winning the game, for god's sake – and it was _fine_. Emma was shouting and Killian was smiling and everything was good, great, _fantastic_ , and then it happened and it was so quick she couldn’t quite believe any of them even noticed.

He was skating – he was fast, faster than Killian, but he never quite got the hang of that whole stopping thing and Emma moved immediately, springing to feet and she could hear Killian’s quiet gasp behind her as soon as Matt crashed into the boards.

He went head first.  

Will was the first one to say anything. Of course he was. The self-appointed, one-man defender of all things Matthew Jones.

“Oh shit,” he muttered and Emma didn't sit down. She just stood there, hands half lifted towards her face like she couldn’t quite decide if she wanted to cover her mouth or grip something or maybe punch something.

Matt didn't move.

The entire Garden seemed to freeze with him, a hush over the crowd and it wasn't even a month into the season, but there were rumors that  _this_ could be the season and there was talk of a Cup run and playoff potential and Matt Jones was the face of the franchise in a way that was becoming some kind of family tradition. 

Emma was briefly worried her lungs had collapsed. It was, she realized rather quickly, because she wasn't breathing. 

The trainer was out on the ice and the team had started to circle around him, some kind of physical wall between Matt and the crowd and Emma couldn’t see her own kid anymore.

He wasn’t really a kid anymore.

Six seasons in the league and only a few weeks removed from his twenty-seventh birthday, but Emma couldn’t ever seem to think of Matt Jones, the second overall pick and still not captain of the New York Rangers, as anything except _her_ kid in some kind of vaguely possessive and, hopefully, maternal way.

She still hadn’t moved her hands.

Her arms were starting to cramp up.

She hoped that didn’t mean she was old.

Emma heard a seat creak next to her, hinges bending on the chairs that were bolted into the floor in front of the suite that had, at some point, just become _theirs_ and Emma moved before her brain realized she _wanted_ to, a hand lacing its fingers through hers and squeezing – tightly.

“You've got to breathe, love,” Killian muttered, squeezing her hand again and she got the distinct impression he was trying to reassure himself as much as her.

God, they were all standing up now.

There better not be pictures of this in _The Post_ the next day.

“What even happened?” Emma asked, glancing around the crowd like someone could give her a play by play. She heard Killian exhale next to her, eyes widening just a bit when they dragged a stretcher out onto the ice and Emma had to will her knees to stay straight, half positive her legs had turned to jelly right there in the stands.

“Oh shit,” Will repeated and Killian glared at him over the top of her head. Some things never changed.

And, then, some things changed a whole lot and other things just kind of _amplified_ and there was still a Jones on the Rangers roster. The thought made Emma’s knees weak all over again.

He looked just like Killian.

That was the first thing people said when they saw him.

_Wow, you look just like your dad. God, look at all that dark hair. How many goals you think you going to score this year? Why haven’t they named you captain yet?_

Emma had always been just a bit on the wrong side of both possessive and maternal on that particular front when Matt was little, far too aware of expectations and hopes and a whole fandom that wanted to see _Cap’s kid_ in blue and white for his entire career.

They told him he didn’t have to play, promised it didn’t matter if he liked hockey or not, that, as far as Emma and Killian were concerned, there were no expectations at all.

It didn’t seem to matter.

“I’m going to play for the Rangers,” Matt announced, eight years old and standing on the ice at the Garden after they’d won that third Cup.

“That so?” Killian asked, quirking one eyebrow and he’d lost his helmet at some point. One of the twins was wearing it. “And when did we decide this exactly?”  
  
Matt shrugged. “Right now. After I beat Rol.”  
  
“You beat Roland,” he repeated, glancing up at the teenager standing at the other blue line with his hands on his knees and a particularly resigned look on his face.  
  
“I’m really good at skating, Dad.”  
  
He was.

He was absurdly good at skating and scoring goals and winning faceoffs and if there was anything except pride on Killian’s face every time their kid stepped onto the ice, it would have been the biggest lie in the history of the entire goddamn universe.

So Matt played hockey and he played at the Piers and he kept beating Roland every time one of them challenged the other to a race.

He was sixteen when he left – spending weeks at the Team USA training facility because he was so good at skating that the entire country wanted to show him off.

Killian had promised it’d be fine then too.

It was.

It was better than fine – it was good and then it was _incredible_ and they won a gold medal at Junior Nationals, the entire Rangers front line flying to the game, decked in head to toe Jones gear and screaming louder than anyone in the stands, phones out and cameras out and Emma was almost certain Matt blushed while he was standing on the blue line.

They hung the medal on his wall, right next to Killian’s and maybe _that_ made Emma blush just a little bit.

Matt kept skating and he kept skating fast and there were enough headlines that Ruby could barely keep track of them all. That wasn’t really her job.

Matt wasn’t on the Rangers. Yet.

And he wouldn’t be.

For another three years.

“Hey Mom,” Matt said, a few weeks after hitting that kid on Team Canada and another medals ceremony and Emma was sitting in her office, feet propped up on top of her desk while Chris sat in the corner, preoccupied with the team-signed merch they were supposed to be organizing.

Emma’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing slightly. “What are you doing down here?” she asked. “I thought you were on the ice with Dad.”  
  
Killian had finally lived up to his retirement promise after the third Cup, but there was no way Killian Jones, some kind of _forever_ captain of the New York Rangers, could ever completely walk away from the game. He took a front office job the day after the parade – player development, working with prospects and rookies and call-ups and Emma shouldn’t have been surprised he was as good as he was at it.

She wasn’t really.

He was good at everything.

Matt hummed, shaking his head as he leaned against the open door frame. He needed a haircut – and he needed to stop crossing his feet at the ankles like that.

“Ahahaha,” Chris laughed, glancing up from signed pucks and a jersey he was handling way too much. “He looks just like Dad!”  
  
He did. 

He absolutely did. 

It was, partially, the hair and partially whatever trick every person with the last name Jones seemed able to do with their eyebrows as soon as they were born, and, largely, because he was wearing a copious amount of New York Rangers team-branded apparel. 

But it was also something else – something Emma couldn't quite name, but was certain she could feel, because Matt's nerves were practically radiating off him in a flashing, neon sign type of way that was patented Killian Jones and their kid desperately wanted to be the best hockey player to ever step on the ice. 

Emma didn’t say that, far too aware of just how often Matt heard the comparisons and those expectations that lingered every time he _did_ step on the ice. She turned to her youngest son instead, narrowing her eyes even more and Chris scrunched his nose, shaking his blonde hair away from his forehead when he dropped the jersey on the floor.

“Kid,” Emma sighed, slinging her feet back on the ground. “Someone signed that. Let’s at least pretend like we’re taking this job seriously.”  
  
“I am,” Chris cried indignantly and Emma lifted her eyebrows. “There’s a lot of stuff.”  
  
“There’s always a lot of stuff. Doesn’t make it any less important.”

“I know, I know. The pucks are all done. Can I go to practice, now?”

He stood up before Emma could even answer, practically sprinting towards the door and a still-frozen Matt and she rolled her eyes, tugging on her ring out of decades-long instinct.

“Well, I mean, you’re already halfway there,” Emma muttered. “Mattie, was Peggy down there when you were there?”  
  
His eyes widened and he might look like Killian and play like Killian, but he was just as bad at lying as Emma, some kind of teenage open book who, it seemed, was completely incapable of lying to either one of his parents.

“Were you not on the ice?” Emma continued and Matt shrugged, ignoring Chris’ laughter completely. “Mattie,” she pressed, sitting up straighter in her chair. He just shrugged again.

Emma took a deep breath, pressing her lips together tightly and trying to figure out what could possibly be so terrifying that a kid who never passed up the opportunity to be on the ice was frozen solid in her office doorway without so much as a word to his vaguely annoying younger brother.

“Go find your sister,” Emma said, nodding towards Chris. He had one foot out the door already, a blur of hair and laughter and the number twenty on his back, streaking out of her office. “And tell Dad we’ll meet him outside, ok?”  
  
Chris made some kind of noise in the affirmative and Emma could hear his footsteps as he sprinted down the stairs. Matt still hadn’t moved.

“You’re freaking me out, kid,” she said softly, widening her eyes and that got the laugh she was hoping for.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. He shuffled his feet, scuffing the toe of his shoe on the recently reinstalled blue carpet in the hallway and Emma tried not to let her mind drift to impossibilities – injuries and school issues and he would have told her if something had happened at practice.

Ruby would have texted her.

“That’s not really the explanation I’m looking for.”  
  
If he shrugged again she was going to scream. She couldn’t scream in the middle of her office. Emma groaned loudly instead, which wasn't really much better, brushing her hair off her shoulder and twisting around her desk, making her way through piles of merch and, for as much as he’d complained about it, Chris had done a pretty good job of organizing everything.

“C’mon,” she said, grabbing the front of Matt's t-shirt and tugging him into the office. “Sit. Talk.”  
  
He followed behind her slowly, slumping into one of the chairs in front of her desk and Emma only just realized he was holding something.

An envelope.

A very large envelope.

“You weren’t at practice, were you?” Emma asked and Matt looked just a bit stunned they’d gotten there so quickly. “Where’s Dad think you are?”  
  
“The Piers.”  
  
“And you’re not.”  
  
“Don’t get mad at Mar,” Mattie said quickly. Emma lips ticked down – she hadn’t expected a joint effort.

“Why would I get mad at Peggy?”  
  
Mattie groaned. “Because she was the distraction. Keep Dad occupied during practice, tell him where I wasn’t and then make sure Uncle Robin didn’t ruin the surprise while they were filming that TV thing.”  
  
“Sounds complex.”  
  
“Not really,” he scoffed. “They're in the middle of a playoff push. Made it easier. And it was Lizzie’s plan to begin with, so I didn’t even really come up with it. Just implemented it.”  
  
Emma tried not to be impressed. She did. Except Killian thought he was at the Piers and Emma thought he was at practice and if Lizzie Vankald-Jones had actually been the mastermind behind all of this then the plan was probably air-tight.

“What’d you have to do to get Peggy involved?” she asked. Mattie grinned.

“Promised her coffee for two weeks and that we’d go running this weekend. Said we’d do most of Riverside Park. Until my lungs collapsed or something.”  
  
“Oh my God." Matt flashed her a smile, some of the nerves forgotten in the joke and the promises and he and Peggy had been running through Riverside Park since they both learned how to use the Subway on their own. "That’s a lot of road.”  
  
Matt hummed in agreement, but he didn’t look particularly put out by the terms of whatever plan he’d been staging. “Eh, maybe this time I’ll win.”  
  
“Can you guys race when you’re running literal miles?”  
  
“If we’re both wearing team-merch and Dad’s number, it’s some unspoken challenge,” Matt explained. “It’s a pride thing, Mom.”  
  
“Ah, obviously.”  
  
“Well, Jones,” he mumbled. “Aren’t we just supposed to be competitive by default?”  
  
“You’re trying to deflect,” Emma accused, but she felt a rush of something at _we_ and she couldn't quite argue with him. “Come on, kid, the truth this time. Where were you?”  
  
Matt sighed loudly, rolling his head back and his t-shirt twisted when he crossed his arms tightly over his chest. Emma tried to be patient, tried not to actually lean across her desk and tug his arms apart, but that was easier said than done and she couldn’t quite shake the feeling something was _wrong_.

“Matthew David,” she started slowly and he rolled his eyes dramatically, cutting her off before she got to Jones.

“Home,” he answered. “I was home.”

“Home?”  
  
“Yup.”

“If you don't’ think I’m going to ask a dozen follow-up questions to that, you’ve got another thing coming.”  
  
“You’ve been spending way too much time with Rubes,” Matt accused, but the sarcasm died on his lips as soon as he saw the look on Emma’s face. Her kids called it _mom face_ – a mix of thin lips and wide eyes and slightly lifted eyebrows that, usually, got the truth and then some out of all of them.

“Here,” he sighed, practically slamming the envelope down on her desk.

She opened her mouth to ask _what is this_ , but that proved wholly unnecessary when she noticed the colors on the paper and the return address in the left-hand corner.

Boston.

It had come from Boston.

And there was a Terrier on it.

“Mattie,” Emma breathed and it felt like she moved in slow motion, reaching her hand out to grab the half opened envelope.

“I got in,” he said, answering her before she could even ask the question. “Lizzie read my essay. That’s why she was in charge of the plan. Applying at all was really more a technicality, but there's got to be a paper trail or several different NCAA rules that will end in our death if we don't follow them and--”

"--Matthew."

He grinned again. "I'm going to blame Dad for my sense of humor. But, uh, yeah, this is the official version of the offer. There's a bunch of stuff in there and, like, dining plans and everything, but um..."

Matt took a deep breath, licking his lips and he closed his eyes lightly. Emma appreciated that. Then he couldn't see was crying. Like a great, big maternal freak. 

"It's full, Mom," Matt said softly. "They think I could start playing as soon as I get there. And I um...well, I want to go. I know we've got to talk about stuff and there's other offers, but this seems really good and something about potential and National Championships and..."

He didn't finish.   
  
And Emma didn’t know what to say. She’d forgotten how to speak or breathe and her expression was so far away from _mom face_ , that Emma was certain she might have fallen into the deep end of emotion and was, possibly, drowning there.

Boston University. 

Boston University hockey. 

"God, Mom, are you crying?"

"Of course not, absolutely not." It was an almost pitiful lie, the tears on her cheeks obvious as she traced her fingers over the top of the envelope like it was made of gold, and she couldn't quite take a deep breath. “That would be absolutely stupid.”  
  
“The stupidest.”  
  
“That’s not a word. Reese’s would be angry you don’t know it’s not a word.”  
  
“Ah, well, good thing I’ve got hockey to fall back on, huh?”  
  
Emma scoffed, but Matt's smile, finally, looked a bit more confident and he wasn’t entirely wrong. He was absurdly good at playing hockey.

“It came today?” Emma asked and she’d absolutely been spending way too much time with Ruby because this sounded distinctly like some kind of interview. "How long have you been leaning towards BU?”  
  
“Just before Christmas. After we went on that official. Where do you think Mar and I went on her birthday? She said it was _momentous_ or something, so we had to talk about it and plan and plot, which was weird, but very her. So she made me take her to Serendipity and refused to split a frozen hot chocolate.”  
  
Emma hummed –  far too aware of Peggy’s penchant for anything covered in chocolate, but she was still a bit stunned Matt had agreed to it. Or hadn't mentioned it. Ever. Not once in the last few months. And Serendipty was hardly worth the wait, even when it was decorated for Christmas. 

“What?” Matt asked, twisting one eyebrow up and Emma was glad Chris had left because _that_ might have been the most Killian Jones thing he’d done all afternoon.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”  
  
He clearly hadn’t been expecting that question, smile falling off his face quickly and he looked a bit stunned. “Uh, well,” he stammered, reaching out to grab the envelope again before thinking better of it. “I mean, I know about the bet.”  
  
“How?”  
  
“Rol told me. When I was six, so it’s not like this happened weeks ago.”  
  
This team talked way too much – still. And Roland Locksley, who went to Michigan of all places, before being drafted twelfth overall by the Philadelphia Flyers was, suddenly, Emma’s least favorite person.

“Don’t get mad,” Mattie said.

“I’m not.”  
  
“Mom, please, you’re doing that thing with your face. You do it whenever Aurora tries to tell you that you can’t get insurance waivers for GD kids. Rol was fourteen. He was mad I’d beat him on the ice. It’s not like it ruined my life or something.”  
  
“Just made you keep major life decisions a secret.”  
  
“That’s not why,” Mattie groaned, slumping down in the chair. “At least not really. And it wasn't much of a decision until they actually offered. I just...I know I could play anywhere. And my name would get me anywhere and Minnesota would probably have some kind of statewide meltdown if I showed up.”  
  
“But?”  
  
“But...hockey’s...I play hockey because of Dad. That’s what it’s always been. And it’s not like I’m scared of the expectation or the headlines or whatever, but, I just thought, maybe this time...I could do something because of you.”

She was absolutely crying. Or, maybe, just a bit closer to sobbing, shoulders shaking slightly as she tried to catch her breath and she could barely make out Matt's cautious smile through her tears.

Jeez.

He went to Boston University. And three years after the _incident_ – Killian tearing into Emma’s office with slightly wild eyes, demanding to know where Matt was after Chris had, given him up – Matthew Jones, centerman for the Terriers won the Hobey Baker and a National Championship in front of his entire family, every single one of them wearing Jones jerseys.

It made  _The Post_.

He left school a year early – rumors of a weak draft class and how badly the Rangers had finished the season before making it some kind of perfect storm of possibility and everyone had been all for it.

Except Killian.

Killian Jones, director of New York Rangers player development, didn’t want his kid to leave school early.

“He should get a degree, Swan,” he argued, pacing in front of their bed the day after Matt had, officially, hired Regina as his agent. “What if something…”  
  
“Nothing’s going to happen,” Emma promised. “And it’s not like he wouldn’t be able to finish his degree. He could go back eventually. He wants to do this. You really don't have any say over it anyway. He already hired an agent.”  
  
“Don’t think Gina and I aren’t going to talk about that.”  
  
“He’s a good get,” Emma shrugged, resting her chin on the pillow she’d grabbed. Killian looked scandalized. “He is. He’s faster than you.”  
  
“That was the plan.”  
  
“That was _your_ plan,” she corrected softly and Killian groaned, slumping onto the corner of the bed and tugging on the back of his hair. “What are you so worried about? That report the other day said he could go first overall.”

“That wouldn’t be us.”  
  
“Is that what you’re worried about?”  
  
Killian shook his head. “No, no,” he promised. “He could go anywhere and he’d still win eighty percent of his faceoffs and score thirty goals a season.”  
  
“So what’s the problem then?”  
  
“The problem is he could go anywhere and he’d be on his own and he...God, Swan, what if something happens?”  
  
He bit out the last few words, squeezing his eyes closed tightly and Emma’s stomach twisted, the tension she could practically see working its way between Killian’s shoulders feeling as if it were reaching across the bed. She tugged the blankets off her legs, inching across the tiny bit of space between them and he didn’t even look up as he wrapped his arm around her waist, burying his face in the curve of her shoulder.

“Nothing’s going to happen,” she said again, dragging her fingers across the back of his neck and she didn’t think she imagined the way his breath hitched.

And it didn’t.

For six years.

Nothing happened and Matt kept skating and kept scoring and he won _ninety_ percent of his faceoffs his second season, a league record that Killian mentioned every time someone asked how _Cap’s kid_ was doing.

Matthew Jones was some kind of NHL Iron Man – called up in November that very first season and never sent back, he played every game the Rangers played, averaging an absolutely ridiculous number of minutes that even impressed Will.

They had to pull him off the ice during the offseason, that determination to _prove himself_ as strong as it had been with Killian and maybe he’d been right – they were, after all, Joneses. There was something competitive about them by nature.

He kept playing and he kept skating and nothing ever happened.

Until his skates got caught up with a Sabres defender on a breakaway and Matthew Jones careened into the boards at the Garden head first.

“Get up, get up, get up,” Ruby muttered behind Emma, heel tapping impatiently on the ground like she couldn’t quite believe Matt wasn’t listening to her.

He didn’t get up.

And Emma could feel the tears on her face, that emotion she’d been trying to keep at bay, finally, welling over when the training staff lifted Matt onto a stretcher and there was a neck brace and she couldn't really make him out, vision far too blurry through the tears.

“It’s fine, love,” Killian repeated, muttering the words against her hair like a mantra. If he kept saying them it had to be right. “It’s fine. He’s going to be fine.”  
  
Emma nodded stiffly, not sure what else to do. She couldn't talk.

Killian was still mumbling words that only made half-sense in the dull roar of the crowd, quiet promises and questions and it all sounded like a buzzing in Emma's ears. They were stretching Matt off the ice.

And she was almost surprised it took that long for her phone to vibrate.

“About time,” Will grumbled, a wry smile on his face when Emma twisted to stare at him. “She’s been texting me in all caps for the last five minutes. I think she figured you were already busy enough but--”

Emma didn’t give him a chance to finish, swiping her thumb against the screen and Peggy was already talking.

Yelling.

Peggy was already yelling.

“Is he an idiot?” she screeched, Killian’s eyes flashing when he heard the tone of their daughter’s voice, and Emma’s lungs almost relaxed. This was, almost, normal. And she knew Will wasn’t right – Peggy hadn’t called immediately because she was, immediately, trying to calm Chris down.

The Jones Line was incredibly competitive and incredibly dramatic and incredibly overprotective.

They probably got that from Killian.

Emma didn’t say that out loud.

“Mom,” Peggy said sharply when Emma didn’t answer in a timely fashion. The stretcher was already halfway down the tunnel and Ruby was doing something with what appeared to be several different phones and Emma dimly wondered where Ariel was.

Probably trying to break down the door of the locker room already.

“Yeah, babe, still here,” Emma muttered, falling back on old nicknames and feelings and she couldn’t stop moving. She kept tapping her foot and rolling her shoulders, Killian’s hand tracing up and down her spine like he was trying to find some kind of pattern that would, maybe, calm her down and he was fighting an absolutely impossible battle.

Down 0-2 in the series.

Or some other hockey metaphor that made more sense.

Peggy was yelling again.

“What just happened?” she asked. “MD was skating and then he was...not skating and I’m kind of having a difficult time breathing.”

“Yeah, that makes two of us,” Ruby mumbled, and Margaret Elsa Jones had lost all control of her voice. She sniffled loudly. “And Ariel says the stretcher thing was just a precaution.”  
  
Peggy gasped. “What, what? What did Ru just say? There was a stretcher?”  
  
“Pegs, aren’t you watching the game?” Emma asked. Her phone buzzed again and that was probably Chris and she probably should have called her other kids as soon as they brought the goddamn stretcher out on the ice, but her mind was not firing at the level it was supposed to and her lungs really kept doing impossible things in her chest.

It kind of felt like they were shrinking and expanding at the same time. And it was decidedly uncomfortable.

“Well, yeah,” Peggy groaned. “But then I saw the hit and Toph called me because his friends were being dicks about it--”  
  
“--Margaret,” Killian snapped, and Emma nearly laughed at the absurdity of all it all. Peggy probably rolled her eyes.

“Why does Dad have supersonic hearing?”  
  
Emma couldn’t quite control her laughter, bordering more on manic than hysterical, and the tears in her eyes made it difficult to see five inches in front of her, let alone the ice or the complete absence of her kid on it and they should probably make a list of all the people they had to call.

She assumed the latest phone buzz was a frantic Mary Margaret or a furious David or possibly Leo Nolan and there was no penalty because it hadn't really been a bad hit.

It had just happened.

Honestly, the entire Sabres organization could fuck off.

Emma didn’t say that out loud either – she didn’t want to get reprimanded by her husband and his supersonic hearing.

Peggy took a deep breath when her question went unanswered, again, exhaling loudly and they probably all needed cat scans or MRIs or _whatever_ for the state of their collective lungs. Killian’s hand stopped moving. “It looked really bad,” Peggy whispered. “I...he just kind of dropped down and fell over and I…”

There was another exhale and, maybe, another sniffle and Emma’s lips ticked up. And it was stupid and sentimental but her kids _cared_ and _loved_ and she knew Peggy was jogging in place, a habit she’d picked up when she was seven and learned how to funnel her nerves.

“He hit the boards really weird,” Peggy continued, but the words were just as soft as ever and even Killian’s ridiculously good hearing, perfect for a Jones Line that liked to cause mayhem on and off the ice, couldn't hear the hitch in her voice. “Don’t tell him I’m crying, he’ll never let me live it down. Then I’ll have to kill him.”

Emma made a noise, not quite the laugh it had been before, a bit calmer and just as emotional and her phone kind of sounded like it was going to explode in her hand. “I don’t know anything yet, Pegs,” she said. “Ruby is staging some kind of man-hunt though.”  
  
“I don’t think those were the words you were looking for in that order, Mom. I’m probably going to kill MD anyway, just for the record or whatever.”  
  
“Please don’t kill your brother.”

“Why didn’t he ever learn how to stop?”  
  
“Ah, that was always a work in progress.”  
  
Emma’s eyes darted towards Killian, a pinch between his eyebrows and lips so thin they were barely even there. His phone made a noise.

“What was that?” Peggy demanded, and Emma sighed, rolling her eyes towards the ceiling and the period was almost over.

They were still winning.

She kind of resented that.

Killian shook his head, holding his phone to his ear with his shoulder so he could keep his left hand on Emma’s back at the same time he reached for Will’s phone and whoever _he_ was talking to. A conversational list, definitely.

“I don’t know,” Killian said, responding to whatever unknown voice was talking in his ear. He couldn’t shrug, but he made an admirable effort, nearly losing both phones in the process, and his glare probably affected the Garden ice when Will mumbled his direction.

“Fucking hell, Cap, give me that back.” Killian didn’t give up the phone. Either one. “Locksley thinks he knows things because he’s got locker room people.”  
  
“Do we not have locker room people?” Peggy asked. “I feel like we should have locker room people, right?”  
  
Emma couldn’t control whatever noises she was making anymore. “You might be the one with supersonic hearing, babe. And we absolutely have locker room people, but we're still in the suite and--”  
  
“--Toph called Dad.”  
  
Oh. That made sense. Emma’s brain was just like...mush. An anxious, nervous, vaguely terrified pile of mush and feeling and she was going to help Ariel kick down the locker room door.

“His friends really were being dicks about it,” Peggy said, pausing like she was waiting to get grounded or kept away from practice for four days. Emma’s smile felt genuine. “Anyway. He probably saw the stretcher and is freaking out about that, but I came outside to call you and now here we are with no locker room people and no updates. Also tell Uncle Will that he can’t abbreviate every word in his text messages. It’s impossible to figure out what he’s saying.”

“I’ll probably mention that after I figure out what happened to your brother.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s pretty fair. I’m going to leave him some really horrible voicemails.”  
  
“Horrible?”  
  
“Totally profanity filled. About what an absolute idiot he is. And what a jackass that guy who tripped him was. Is. Continues to be.”  
  
“Covering all your tense bases, huh?”  
  
Peggy laughed under her breath, and she’d probably stopped jogging long enough to twist a curl around her hair and Emma’s heart thudded until it almost distracted her from the state of her mind and her lungs. The period was over.

“That was almost a cliché, Mom,” Peggy mumbled. “Very Grandma and Grandpa of you.”  
  
“You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are, babe.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I know. But I’m kind of freaking out too.”

Her voice cracked on the final few words, another inhale and exhale and a door opened in Indianapolis – because Peggy was training and for reasons no one understood that’s where the United States track and field training center was and Emma knew she was going to run as soon as she hung up the phone.

Or, at least, as soon as she left several profanity-filled voicemails for her brother.

And probably called Chris again.

“I know you are,” Emma said, perched on the armrest in between seats, and Killian was still trying to text and talk at the same time. “But the stretcher was probably a precaution and he wasn’t really going that fast and--”  
  
“--Ah, that was not your best effort.”  
  
“Yeah, I know that too. The freaking out is catching. He was going fast.”  
  
Peggy hummed, Killian’s lips brushing over Emma’s hair in a move that, a few moments before, she would have been sure was impossible. He was, after all, still holding several phones and staging several different conversations at the same time he was trying to fight off Will and there were people throwing t-shirts in the crowd.

Emma resented that too.

“MD’s stupid talented,” Peggy grumbled. “But stopping has never been his strong suit. You think he’s going to come back out for the third?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Figured. Ok. I um...I’ll text Toph and tell him to stop interrogating Dad for facts you guys don’t have and then I’m going to yell at MD’s voicemail and then...you want me to call Reese’s and Uncle David?”  
  
“Would you?”

“Of course. I’ve got nothing to tell them except MD’s a really fast idiot, but that’s better than nothing, right?”  
  
Emma hummed, meeting Ruby’s worried gaze when she, finally, pulled her phone away from her ear. “It is,” she agreed. “Keep your phone on when you go run later, ok? And as soon as Dad and I know what’s going on, I’ll let you and Chris know.”  
  
There wasn’t an immediate answer, an almost deafening silence that would have been absolute if not for the goddamn t-shirt guns, and Emma bit her lip. “Pegs?” she asked. “Still there?”  
  
“Yup, yeah, yeah, yes, still here.”  
  
“More bases, babe.”  
  
“Still freaking out,” she muttered. “And I’m totally going to run now. And it’s totally going to break the rules, but that’s point one through four of the very angry voicemails.”  
  
“An efficient schedule.”  
  
“Ah, I got that from you.”

Emma’s heart exploded. It wasn’t nearly as bad as she expected it to be. “As soon as I know anything, you’ll know.”  
  
“Thanks, Mom.”

“Come on, Swan,” Killian said, tugging on her hand and she snapped her head towards him, all wide eyes and silent terror and his phone was back in his pocket. “Let’s go downstairs. We’ll see if we can get some answers.”  
  
She nodded again, trying to swallow down some of that emotion that had taken up residence in the back of her throat, and Ruby shot her a sympathetic glance. “Not a single comment,” she promised and Emma let out a watery sound that might have been a laugh.

Killian let go of her hand and she was half a second away from protesting, but the words didn’t make it out of her mouth before he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, tugging her close to his side and kissing the top of her head again.

“It’s going to be fine,” he promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a message asking for a bit of angst and this is a bit of angst. And two parts! Because I like words and, apparently, angst. As always, I can't thank you guys enough for being so nice about this hockey team and telling me your hockey feelings and hockey thoughts. It's the nicest. 
> 
> Come flail on Tumblr: http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/


	11. Stopping Is Harder Than Starting, Part Two

They wouldn’t let him in.

Some security guard tried to tell them they couldn’t and explained the rules, like he didn’t have the rules fucking memorized at this point, three and a half decades of his life spent in this stupid arena.

And Killian couldn’t stop saying the word _fine_ , promising it over and over again like it was the only word he’d ever learned and half of him was certain he was doing it for himself as much as he was for Emma. She didn’t let go of his hand, thumb tracing absentmindedly along a ridge of scar tissue on the back of his palm and it made Killian’s heart ache in his chest, the understanding that _this_ , all of it, could be gone in half a moment and half an instant and they wouldn't let _him_ in.

“I can’t, Cap,” a stricken security guard told him for the fifth time and Killian was half ready to grab the closest piece of equipment and check the asshole into the locked door behind him.

He didn’t.

Mostly because he only had one free hand and, truthfully, he wasn’t entirely certain his legs could support his weight if he moved away from Emma.

“It’s fine,” she muttered, echoing his own words back to him. “It’s…” She took a deep breath and he knew she was biting her lip without even glancing down, could feel her arm shift against his side when she tried to hold onto the ring around her neck. “It’s going to be fine. Can, we, do you know have they moved him? MRI’s or anything like that?”  
  
The security guard shook his head slowly and Killian rolled his eyes towards the ceiling, not even trying to disguise his frustrated groan.

What, after all, was the point of winning three Stanley Cups and being the face of the entire goddamn, fucking franchise, if no one knew what happened to his kid?

“I’m sorry,” the security guard continued, shuffling awkwardly on his feet and Emma pulled her hand away from her ring to rest on the front of Killian’s chest.

“In through your nose, out through your mouth, Jones,” she whispered and he nearly laughed, nearly smiled at her or brushed his lips across her head, but there wasn’t enough time.

The door swung open and the security guard – Thomas, his name tag claimed he was Thomas– leapt towards both of them, moving out of the way just quickly enough that he didn’t get mowed down by whatever the doors of the Rangers locker room were made of.

Concrete?  
  
That didn’t make much sense.

It couldn’t have been concrete.

Killian was losing his mind. He wanted to see Matt.

And he wished people would stop stuttering every time they caught his eye. God, he wanted to shoot at something.

The woman in front of them looked just as anxious as he felt – eyes wide and light brown hair falling across her forehead and she might have done permanent damage to her lip. She exhaled loudly when she spotted Emma and Killian, that same lip back between her teeth and for half a moment he was concerned about how low she’d pulled her eyebrows.

Emma shifted slightly against him, twisting until she could grip the front of his jacket and, technically speaking, he really shouldn’t have been in the suite. He should have been with front office and he had an _assistant_ , a whole office of people who were supposed to be able to help him help players and there was no point to any of _that_ if they didn’t let him figure out what happened to Matt.

Fuck.

He’d hit the boards hard.

“Uh, Cap? Killian? Mr...uh...Mr. Jones?”

Emma actually laughed at that, a short, shaky sound that was equal parts nervous and amused and vaguely terrified. “She called you Mr. Jones,” she mumbled, pressing her forehead against his shoulder blade. “Like you’re old.”  
  
Killian huffed, but he didn’t move his arm, just tightened his hold on his wife and did, finally, kiss the top of her head – if only to remind himself that she was there and Emma’s shoulders shook against him.

She’d started crying again.

“It’s ok, love,” he said softly and the woman still hadn’t moved out of the doorframe. “It’s ok. He’s going to be ok.”  
  
“Um, Mr. Jones? Mrs. Jones?” she continued and Killian resisted the urge to roll his eyes, not sure he could come up with something even in the realm of pleasant or personable or professional, despite the team-mandated jacket he had on and the tie that, suddenly, felt far too tight. 

Matt would be fine.

He had to be.

“Killian is alright,” he said, glancing up over Emma’s head as she tried to turn towards the woman behind them.

“Oh,” she muttered. “Yeah, yeah, of course. Yeah, um, well, I just wanted to...give you guys a head’s up or whatever…” She trailed off and she still hadn’t actually explained who she was or what she was doing and Killian, admittedly, wasn’t paying much attention.

“Claire,” Emma mumbled, eyes darting back towards his and the laughing and the crying was tinged with a smile, her eyes just a bit red around the edges. “Assistant athletic trainer.” Killian opened his mouth, but she answered him before he even got the words out. “Start of the season. After that other one moved to Boston.”  
  
“Mind reader,” he accused and she shrugged slightly.

Claire – who hadn’t disagreed to the introduction – coughed softly and Killian’s head snapped back towards her, eyebrows raised and defenses on high against _something_ that might have been just some deep-rooted need to protect his kid.

“Yeah,” Killian snapped and Claire took a step back, eyes shifting slightly and there was something in gaze that he couldn’t quite name. It looked a bit like frustration.

Emma tapped her fingers quickly on the front of his jacket, pulling her hand away to wrap his fingers in hers and her thumb traced just underneath his ring. “You’re supposed to be the calm one,” she whispered. “Stoic captain or whatever.”  
  
“Not when Matt’s involved.”  
  
He was, admittedly, a bit overprotective.

It drove his kids nuts. It drove Emma nuts. It drove his entire team nuts.

But Matthew David Jones had shown up in the world and it was as if, suddenly, something had clicked and not much mattered more than him or what he’d do or how he felt and Killian couldn’t stop it if he tried.  
  
He didn’t really try.

He was, as Emma put it, a complete pushover for all three of their kids – all of whom appeared to be just as competitive and just as determined as he was. Anna called them _stubborn_ , and it was more than that.

It wasn’t quite Horsemen, but it was pretty damn close, the three of them some kind of built-in support system who regarded Emma and Killian as their de facto leader and resident cheer squad.

Matt had to be fine.

They should have worked on stopping more when he was a kid.

God, he’d fucked up.

“Hey,” Emma said sharply, turning on him as quickly as if Claire wasn’t even there. “His feet got caught. That defender was a dick. It probably should have been a slash. It wasn’t a stopping thing. Not really.”  
  
“Not really.”  
  
“Scarlet did the same thing. Twice.”  
  
“I’m not exactly pulling for broken legs here, Swan,” Killian argued. It felt like his throat tightened on the words. Broken legs he could deal with. Broken legs were easy. A straight fracture and he’d be back on the ice in six to eight and it would be fine.

Broken bones didn’t come with stretchers and neck braces and it was suddenly very warm in that hallway, the walls feeling just a bit closer together than they had a few minutes before. Broken bones didn’t feel like history repeating itself.

Emma’s mouth dropped open slightly and he was nearly impressed that she’d realized it without him actually saying anything.

He absolutely shouldn’t have been.

“It’s not the same thing,” she said quickly, but her voice shook a bit and he got the distinct impression her mind was four steps ahead of her, wondering, if, maybe, it was _exactly_ the same thing.

Killian hummed, nodding slowly like that would somehow convince her that he agreed and he knew it didn’t work in half a second and one not-quite-deep breath. “Killian,” Emma said. “It’s not. It’s not even remotely close.”  
  
The story came out his sophomore year.

Matt was fresh off some kind of absurd record for faceoff wins as a freshman and BU was _back on track_ or so the websites claimed, a favorite for the national championship and there were, already, draft rumors.

It had ended up on his desk – an actual, physical newspaper and headline that had left Killian sinking into his chair with a hand in his hair and eyes so wide he was certain he’d done permanent damage to his corneas or something.

**Cap’s kid: Hold that thought**

_Matt Jones has been on the Rangers radar since, what feels like, the dawn of time. He’s legacy in a way that doesn’t even really fit the word, the name on the back of his jersey as important as any stat he could possibly record._

_Of course, the stats aren’t all that bad either._

_In fact, the stats are pretty darn good. Some might even use the word impressive. Or record-breaking. That could work too._

_A year removed from one of the most dominant performances in recent college history, Jones seems to be falling into his father’s footsteps – skate lines? What, exactly is the technical term for that? – with relative ease. He’s as fast as Cap, with an eye for the net and that tiny sliver of space just above goalie’s right shoulders that could make him one of the most sought after draft picks this season._

_It’s a wonder he decided to go back to the Terriers for another year. After all, Cap left school after a season. There were rumors, of course, that Matt simply wanted to win at BU and then that less idyllic rumor that the Rangers, who didn’t have a first-round pick in last year’s draft, encouraged him to go back until the time he could be guaranteed a spot with the team he practically grew up on._

_That, however, is neither here nor there._

_The point here is that Cap’s kid might look like him and skate a bit like him and, most importantly, score like him, but there’s something about Matt Jones’ game that feels a bit...not like Cap._

_So, what is it?_

_It’s the position. Obviously._

_Matt Jones is not a winger. He’s a centerman and he’s good. Undeniably good. The kind of good that makes diehard Blueshirts fans wonder if maybe...well, maybe, Matt Jones is what would have happened if Liam Jones had never gotten hurt._

Killian had read it ten times and then read it ten more times and then didn’t leave his office for what felt like several weeks and maybe the rest of the season.

Emma found him, phone clutched tightly in her hand and a look on her face that made it almost painfully obvious that she’d read the story several dozen times as well.

“Ruby’s going to kill another columnist,” she said softly, not even bothering with the chairs on the other side of the desk, just pushing around in front of him and sinking onto his legs. He sighed, resting his forehead on her arm and he could barely feel her fingers carding through the back of his hair, hand wrapped tightly around his neck as he tried to breathe her in.

“Decades, Swan,” Killian mumbled. “Thirty years and they’re still talking about it.”  
  
“He’s better than Liam.”  
  
She said it so simply – the certainty in her voice almost taking him off guard. Or it would have if it wasn’t completely true.  
  
Matt Jones was the best hockey player Killian had ever seen, better than him or Liam or Roland and, quite suddenly, that knot of anxiety and _guilt_ that had settled in the very center of him loosened just a bit, Emma’s soft weight on his leg managing to pull him back to the present and the few hours they had before puck drop.

“And, you know,” she added. “I might have already done something…” Killian pulled back slightly, eyebrows drawn low as her fingers raced across her phone screen. “Here,” Emma muttered, pushing the thing a few inches away from his face.

**Tell dad that story is stupid.**

**Obviously I’m better than Uncle Liam. Uncle Liam would say that. Dad has said that. And maybe don’t show Ru the story. She’ll probably kill that columnist.**

**Oh, never mind I bet Ru showed you the story, didn’t she?**

**Mom, you’ve got to answer my text messages, you’re killing me here. Ah, dad saw the story. That’s what’s happening here isn’t it?**

Emma’s phone buzzed in her hand, another text message appearing on the screen in front of him and Killian let out a shaky laugh when he saw the words pop up in his eye line.  
**  
** **Hey, dad. The story is stupid.**

He held his hand out expectantly and Emma grinned when she dropped it in her palm, shifting slightly on his leg while he wrapped his left arm around her waist to try and keep her balanced.

_That is true. On both points. And you’re definitely better than Liam. He never set a freshman faceoff record at Minnesota._

**You gotta stop bringing that fact up.**

_It’s a good fact!_

**I can’t believe a story tried to play off like there was insider trading happening before the draft.**

_Columnists get bored easily._

**You’re not going to stop Ru from killing that guy are you?**

_Between your mother, Lucas and probably Scarlet, I can’t imagine there’s much hope for that guy’s byline at this point._

**Insider. Trading.**

**Tell ‘em thanks too. And beat up on the Flyers tonight.**

_He’s going to hit that marker tonight._

**Yeah, well, that’s just rude. You can tell Rol I said that. If he can’t wait until I can get to a game to see him hit 150 goals, then that’s stupid and I don’t accept the record.**

_I’m sure he’ll take that into consideration._

_How’d you find the story?_

**Rol sent it to me. He’s bored after skate. Gina’s trying to get him to come home before the game.**

_Ah, well, I guess growing up in the Garden does take some of the shine off its return._

It took a few moments for the final text to come through and when it did, Killian’s arm tightened around Emma’s waist. She hummed in question, twisting against his front to try and see the message and her smile probably could have melted the several inches of snow sitting outside his office.

**That’s not true. I’ll see you guys next week.**

All Matt Jones ever wanted was to be a New York Ranger and, two years after the story, when they called his name and gave him a jersey and he picked twenty, Killian couldn’t quite decide if he’d ever stop talking about it.

His _son_ was a professional hockey player.

His son was wearing his number.

He’d asked about it – a few hours before the draft, walking into the building in Chicago with nervous eyes and slightly mumbled words and Killian couldn’t understand him the first time.

“What?” Killian asked, coming up short and tugging on the back of Matt’s jacket to keep him from walking into a line of photographers.

“I just….” Matt started, shuffling on his feet as he stuffed his hands into his pockets.

“You’ve got to use actual words, Matt.”  
  
Matt glared at him and Killian dimly heard a shutter click behind him, wrapping his arm around his son and dragging him back towards the corner. He waved off Emma and she smiled in response, leading a contingent of former Rangers and David and Mary Margaret to a table a few feet away.

“Alright,” Killian said, resting both hands on Matt’s shoulders. “What did you say before?”  
  
“I just thought….” Matt cut himself off again, tongue darting out in between his lips and his eyes fell anywhere except Killian.

“Mattie, you’re not making this any easier, kid.”  
  
That got his attention. Killian _never_ called him Mattie – that was Emma and Lizzie when she was frustrated with him and Roland when he was teasing him, which seemed to be more often than not, but the nickname was out of his mouth before he’d really considered it, nerves flitting in the back of his head.

Matt had left school. He’d hired an agent and given up his last year of eligibility and this needed to work.

“Jeez, Dad,” Matt sighed. “Laying it on almost too thick, don’t you think?”  
  
“That’s because you’re not talking to me. Enunciate this time.”  
  
Matt rolled his eyes and it was like looking in some kind of mirror. Killian tried not to dwell on that too long.

“I already talked to equipment,” Matt said quickly. “So, you know, if this goes the way it’s supposed to. Then you don’t really have much say over it anyway, but I figured I’d ask. Or tell you or whatever.”  
  
It hit him like a goddamn freight train in the back corner of that room – photographers and media and slightly manic league officials trying to make sure everyone got to their seat.

Killian knew his eyes widened, could feel his mouth hanging open slightly and Matt grinned cautiously at him, shrugging as if that was actually enunciating the words he hadn’t said yet.

“Is that cool?” he asked.

“Cool,” Killian repeated slowly and Matt shrugged again. “You want...you want to wear my number?”  
  
“I mean, you know, if it’s cool with you.”

It wasn’t cool.

It was far bigger than that.

It was everything and then some and Matt Jones wore his father’s number in his first NHL game and every NHL game he ever played. He was wearing his father’s number when he went head-first into the boards and got stretchered off the ice with a neck brace and Killian still couldn’t quite seem to catch his breath, even with Emma pressed against his side and an assistant athletic trainer staring at him like some kind of ticking time bomb.

“What’s the heads up?” Emma asked and Claire nearly snapped to attention, the heels of her shoes clicking together immediately.

She smiled nervously, shoulders tight with tension and she tugged on the end of her pony tail. And Killian felt like he was missing something – something big and vaguely important and his eyes flashed towards Emma out of instinct and several decades worth of her hand wrapped up in his.

“He, uh, he lost consciousness,” Claire said slowly and Emma went stiff next to him. Killian pressed his lips together tightly, digging his teeth into them until he could taste blood, and tried to remember the definition of the word _fine_. “But, but,” Claire, added. “It was only for a few seconds. They...they took him to the hospital. You know for tests and precautions and all that. You guys, well, you should probably head downtown.”  
  
Emma didn’t say a word, just nodded once and turned on her heels, pulling Killian’s hand with her and Claire still looked vaguely terrified.

It took twenty-two minutes to get to the hospital. Twenty-two minutes of silence in the back seat of a cab – or relative silence, Emma’s fingers flying across her phone screen, presumably updating their kids and David and Mary Margaret and a whole former front line about a medical status they hadn’t gotten any confirmation on yet.

“It’s not the same,” she said suddenly, head snapping towards Killian as the cab pulled up in front of the hospital. “It’s not.”

Killian smiled softly, inhaling slowly and he tried to believe her, tried to feel the determination he could see on her face, that it wasn’t the same and Matt would be as fine as they both claimed he would.

It wasn’t the same.

“Just precautionary,” Emma continued, squeezing his forearm tightly. “Maybe she was wrong. Maybe he didn’t lose consciousness. Maybe, you know, maybe he was just...blinking. For a long time or something.”  
  
“Swan,” Killian cautioned and she shook her head quickly, eyes just a bit wider than they’d been all night.

“Stop. Stop it. It’s fine. He’s going to be fine. He just got tripped up and they’ve got to do tests and that’s...that’s protocol, right? Part of…”  
  
“Player’s union rules,” he finished. Emma nodded again, like she was trying to convince herself that he knew how it worked or that tests, precautionary or otherwise, were a good idea and they still hadn’t gotten out of the cab yet.

Her phone buzzed again.

“Reese’s is already here,” Emma explained, nodding at her hand. “I think David got them some kind of police escort downtown or something insane.”  
  
“It wouldn’t surprise me if he did.”  
  
She laughed under her breath and her eyes were a bit glossy when she looked up at him. “It’s not the same,” she said again. “God, he’d make fun of us if he knew what a mess we were.”

“We?”  
  
“Please, you’ve been pale as ice for the last hour.”

“That’s true,” Killian admitted, squeezing his eyes closed when he leaned his head forward. She kissed him, lips brushing over his forehead and the top of his hair and she hadn’t actually let go of his arm.

The driver coughed pointedly and there were other cars behind them, a long line of people waiting and leaving, or trying to leave, and they had to get out of this cab eventually. “Come on, love,” Killian said, tugging his arm out of her grip to twist his fingers up with hers. “Let’s go find our boy.”  
  
The doctor wouldn’t let them out of the waiting room – they were _in the middle of tests_ or something absurd and there were mores rules and no number of former New York Rangers or even David trying to flash a badge seemed to do any good.

They were stuck.

And it felt like it had been days and years and several losing seasons in a row, the whole lot of them stretched out over plastic chairs and arm rests, with heads on shoulders and phones clutched tightly in their hands.

Killian couldn’t stop pacing. He couldn’t stop moving.

“You’re going to wear a hole in the tiles,” Emma muttered, hardly lifting her head off Mary Margaret’s shoulder. Ruby mumbled under her breath, her own head resting on Emma’s arm and they were a line of almost palpable nervous energy.

“He’s been in there for days, Swan,” Killian sighed, running a hand through his hair and Robin scoffed. “At least.”  
  
She smiled at him, a knowing look that seemed to mirror every thought running through his mind for as long as they’d been relegated to that waiting room. “I know,” she whispered. “We’re here though. I’m sure he knows that.”  
  
Killian sighed again, nearly ripping his hair out of his head when his phone started ringing loudly in his pocket.

“Jeez, Cap,” Will groaned, stretching his arms over his head. “Who haven't you called yet?”

He didn’t bother answering – certain it was El and Liam or Anna or Lizzie and he was almost surprised they hadn’t all just FaceTime’d him yet, demanding updates and answers he didn’t have.

It wasn’t any of them.

Killian glanced at Robin, eyes wide and the question on his lips. Robin shrugged. “He didn’t believe me,” he said, like that explained everything. “Said he was going to go straight to the source or something. He just got off the ice.”  
  
“Where are they?” Killian asked.

“St. Louis.”  
  
Will made some kind of impossibly impatient noise, kicking the heel of his foot into the tiled the floor and Killian didn’t even have the energy to glare at him. He swiped his thumb over the phone screen, leaning forward to kiss the top of Emma’s head, muttering _I’ll be right back_ , and walking towards a slightly abandoned hallway around the corner.

“Hey, mate,” Killian said, sliding down the wall he hadn’t even realized he’d been leaning against.  Roland exhaled loudly on the other end, mumbling under his breath at teammates and it was loud in the St. Louis visitor’s locker room. “You win?”  
  
“Is he ok?” Roland asked sharply, bypassing greetings or nicknames and Killian felt every muscle in his body tense at the nerves coming through the phone. “Hook, is he ok?”

Killian took a deep breath before he answered and Roland could probably hear him shrugging in the middle of the hallway. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “We’re still waiting for tests.”  
  
“It looked bad.”  
  
“When did you even have time to look at video?”  
  
“Somebody in training was talking about it in between periods. Bad hit by Jones into the boards and everything. It...it looked bad.”  
  
“You should have seen it in person. You didn’t answer my question, you guys win?”

“Hook, if you don’t already know whether or not we won, then I’m not answering that question,” Roland said. “Just proves how distracted you were. Did you ask Dad where we were before you answered the phone? Is that why it took so long?”  
  
Killian took half a moment to marvel at how transparent he, apparently, was, but there was a smile tugging on the corners of his lips and Roland Locksley, almost NHL veteran was far too smart for his own good.

“Between you and Emma, it’s like a mind reading competition,” he mumbled and Roland laughed quietly. “You score?”  
  
“Two assists.”  
  
“That’s not bad.”  
  
“Gee, thanks,” Roland grumbled. Killian was, maybe, actually smiling now. “And, yeah, we won. Did you?”  
  
“I have no idea.”  
  
“Super dad strikes again. Far too preoccupied with kid to worry about hockey.”

He could hear the sarcasm, knew exactly what Roland was doing and what Emma had been doing and even Will – all of them trying to get his mind off the certainty that it was _exactly_ like it had been before and Killian might not have been on the ice this time, but that was, somehow, worse, watching it all play out in slow motion and it was his _kid_.

_His kid_.

Killian closed his eyes, suddenly feeling as if all the oxygen had been pulled out of the hallway and Roland made a noise in St. Louis.

“It’s not the same,” Roland muttered and Killian hummed in the back of his throat, trying to sound like he almost agreed.

“You and Emma should get that sky-written. I think she’s told me that ten times in the last five minutes.”  
  
“Ah, well, that’s because she’s smart. And really good at reading your mind. I always liked her more than you.”  
  
“That’s an enormous lie and you know it.”  
  
Roland laughed, the sound making its way from St. Louis to lower Manhattan and into that hallway that, suddenly, wasn’t quite so unoccupied. Killian glanced up, gaze landing on Claire the assistant athletic trainer and she still looked slightly terrified.

She looked like she’d spent the better part of the last half an hour alternating between crying and trying to breathe and her fingers were still all twisted together, a picture of anxious frustration that Killian seemed to feel in the very center of his being.

“Hook?” Roland asked. “You still with me? Did the doctors show up?”  
  
“No, no, uh, someone from training.” Claire’s eyes widened again, glancing around the hallway like she was looking for an a quick exit.

There wasn’t one.

She waved at him and Killian’s laugh was shaky at best and a bit manic at worst and Roland was still asking questions in St. Louis.  
  
“Oh,” he said slowly when Killian didn’t say anything else. “You met Claire didn’t you?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Rol,” Killian said sharply and there was a scoff on the other end of the phone. This team put far too much stock in nicknames. “What do you know that I don’t?”  
  
“A whole lot, apparently,” Roland chuckled, any worry over Matt’s state of consciousness forgotten for half a moment. “You should talk to her. Like actually talk to her. Might not be a bad idea. You know, for...whatever. Tell Matt he’s an idiot.”

“Overprotective flew right out the window, didn’t it?”  
  
“There aren’t any windows in this locker room,” Roland argued. “And overprotective is just built in at this point, but, this is just...talk to her. Claire, I mean, she’s probably freaked and we’re all super intimidating and then tell Matt to call me. And learn how to stop.”  
  
“Anything else?” Killian asked, voice drenched in sarcasm and Claire still hadn’t moved.

“Yeah, tell him not to freak me out like that again, ok?”  
  
“Deal.”

Roland hung up before he could fire off another vaguely sarcastic comment and Killian stuffed his phone back in his pocket, glancing warily at Claire.

She hadn’t moved.

“You’re...uh, you’re here,” Killian started slowly and Claire almost smiled. “Why...why are you here?”  
  
She let out a shaky laugh, rocking back on her heels and tugging self consciously on the bottom of her team-provided polo. “If I say professional courtesy is that an almost legitimate excuse?”  
  
“Almost?”  
  
Claire shrugged, brushing the hair out of her eyes and _oh shit_. He was the idiot. God, Matt would never stop laughing at him. He probably should have known as soon as they saw her in front of the locker room.

Emma probably knew.

“Oh,” Killian said and he couldn’t even come up with a response that wasn’t decidedly stupid. It was because he was so worried about Matt.

Absolutely.

And not a little stunned that _his kid_ was, apparently, dating the assistant athletic trainer of the New York Rangers.

History and repeating and Mrs. Vankald would have had some kind of perfect cliché for a moment like this. Killian opened his mouth, a bit desperate to ease the slightly uncomfortable tension that had taken up residence in between him and Claire, but she started speaking before he could.

“He already did,” she said and there was no way to mistake the emotion in her voice, that tinge of _something_ that Killian recognized whenever he talked about Emma. Sentimental fool.

“Who already did what? Matt?”

Claire nodded, smile looking just a bit easier when she she crossed her arms. “Almost as soon as this….whatever,” she laughed, waving her hand in the space in front of her, “started. He said his grandmother would have had a perfect cliché for it. History and repeating. He thought he was hysterical.”  
  
“Of course he did,” Killian muttered. “Did he, uh, did he tell you why he didn’t….”  
  
“Tell you?”  
  
Killian nodded and Claire seemed to retreat back to _worried_ relatively easily. “It was kind of a joint decision,” she said. “Kind of a conflict of interest or something like that. We didn’t want it to be this whole, big thing in the middle of the season.” He nodded again. “Matt said you’d understand.”  
  
“His mother and I were woefully bad at under the radar,” Killian admitted. “Everyone knew. A few before we did.”  
  
Claire laughed, brushing her hair back behind her ears and her shoulders didn’t appear quite as tense as they had been in front of the locker room. “He’s totally freaked me out here,” she whispered, sounding like she was admitting to something just a bit bigger.

“Ah, that makes two of us. But he’ll be fine.”

Claire made a quiet noise in the back of her throat, an unquestionable disagreement that Killian understood as well. “He will,” he promised. “We just never got around to that whole stopping part.”  
  
“He said that’s your fault.”  
  
“The not stopping or how fast he is?”  
  
“Either or.”  
  
“You two spend a lot of time talking about me, then?” Killian asked, lifting one eyebrow and that quiet noise was a scoff now, met with a smirk and he liked her.

History.

“We spend a lot of time talking about hockey,” Claire corrected. “You just happen to play large role in Matt’s opinion on hockey.”  
  
Killian hummed, something that felt distinctly like _emotion_ shooting down his spine – and there were plenty of questions left, but there was another set of shoes in the hallway, running towards him and he stood up before Emma could crash into the wall.

“We can go in,” she said breathlessly, gripping the front of his jacket and the tears in her eyes weren’t from worry or the certainty that it wasn't just like it had been before. “Mattie’s awake and it's a concussion, but they think he'll be ok soon'ish and, God, you’ve got to come now. He was wondering where you were.”

She glanced over her shoulder, her grip on Killian’s jacket tightening a fraction of an inch. “You too,” Emma added to Claire and Killian chuckled when her mouth dropped open slightly. “He said he figured you were here.”  
  
“Mind reader,” Claire mumbled, but the smile on her face was genuine and she looked like she was taking her first deep breath in hours. “I’m gonna...I’m…”  
  
“Go,” Emma said, nodding towards the room at the far end of the hall. She practically sprinted away from them.

“Did you know?” Killian asked as soon as Claire was gone, eyeing Emma and she scrunched her nose. “I’m going to take that as a yes.”  
  
“I had an idea,” she said. “And some rumors. Mostly from Ruby, who, apparently, still knows everything. Don’t think about that for too long, it’ll freak you out.”  
  
“I’ve been freaked out enough for one day, I think, Swan.”  
  
“He’s ok. Stubborn skull or something. I actually talked to a doctor.”  
  
“Talked?”  
  
She shrugged. “Demanded. Whatever. We were out there forever and if Scarlet tapped his foot any louder I was absolutely going to kill him. So I asked and they answered my questions. Concussion, but only mild and he claims the whole unconscious thing was, like, half a second.”  
  
“You talked to Matt?” Killian asked, half moving towards the room before Emma even had a chance to answer.

“Just for a second. I didn’t want him to be by himself when they moved him into the room.” Killian’s shoulders sagged slightly, the force of his exhale nearly moving Emma’s hair. “I wanted to tell you. I just…”  
  
“You don’t have to explain yourself, Swan. Parents of the year.”  
  
“Nearly three decades running,” she muttered, pressing up on tiptoes to brush her lips against his and Killian would never get tired of that. Not for another three decades or the rest of his life or _eternity_ and it wasn’t nearly as sentimental as he wanted it to be.

“He’s going to be fine,” he said again and Emma grinned against his mouth.

“Better than.”  
  
He kissed her again, quick and meaningful and tried to move towards the room when Emma nearly ripped his jacket off him, fingers wrapping around lapels and pulling him up short.

“What?” Killian asked and Emma pushed her phone against his chest.

“Ruby knows everything,” she said, staring at him like she’d never quite seen him before. It made his heart speed up. “And you’re going to want to read this before you go in there.”  
  
He glanced down at the screen, eyes scanning across the headline and his heart thudded almost painfully against his chest, trying to work its way out between his ribs or maybe into his throat. Emma smiled at him, tracing her finger across her jacket with her lip pulled in between her teeth and nearly three decades later, he still couldn’t quite believe how goddamn lucky he was.

**Oh Captain, no Captain: Jones turns down C for Blueshirts**

_The long-time Rangers standout, who is already closing in on the 500-point marker, reportedly was the front-runner in the locker room to be the team’s next Captain, but turned down the honor for one very simple reason.  
“Nah,” he said before Thursday’s game against the Sabres. “That’s my dad. I’m not the Captain of this team. Nobody is. There’s a reason no one’s worn a ‘C’ since my dad retired and I’m not going to take that. I wouldn’t want it.” _

“Huh,” Killian sighed and Emma laughed, pressing a kiss against his cheek. She was still smiling.

“Eloquent as always, Jones.”  
  
“Mattie said that?”  
  
“Well, he’s quoted.”  
  
“Swan.”  
  
Emma grinned at him, brushing her fingers across his forehead and lingering just a few moments on a particularly _greying_ patch of hair. “Of course he did,” she said. “He wouldn’t...he would never take that.”  
  
“He wouldn’t be taking it,” Killian argued. “He should.”  
  
“He doesn’t want it.”  
  
Killian couldn’t come up with anything else to argue – the quote on the screen in front of him, practically cementing itself in his brain and he couldn’t actually break down in the middle of the hallway. That was easier said than done, however, between mild concussions and history and _nah, that’s my dad_ would probably be branded behind his eyelids every time he blinked.

“Captain America,” Emma mumbled fondly, tugging on lapels again and it was all Killian could do to laugh weakly. “Come on, let’s go see him.”

Matt smiled when he saw them, pushing up against a small mountain of pillows _he’d_ probably demanded and Emma kept her hand trained in Killian’s when they walked into the room.

“I’m fine,” he said as soon as Killian’s mouth opened. “But, well, maybe we should work on stopping at some point.”  
  
Emma groaned, sinking onto the corner of the bed and running her fingers through Matt’s hair – a habit they’d both picked up on when he was younger and road trips lasted for a week and there wasn’t anyone to bring him to the Piers.

And it all seemed to happen quickly, the scene in front of them settling into something _happy_ and comfortable and Killian nodded out of instinct, agreeing to a plan and a practice and maybe history didn’t always have to repeat itself.

It was better that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hai. This excess of hockey dad feels were not originally planned for Father's Day, but it almost makes sense, so that's what's happening. Matthew Jones idolizes his dad and Killian Jones idolizes his kid and they're both real good at playing. They are both less good at undercover relationships. 
> 
> Come flail on Tumblr if you're down: http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/


	12. Getting in the Shooting Lanes

“It’s absurdly cold.”  
  
“It’s April, Swan. And we are inside still.”  
  
Emma groaned, slumping against Killian’s shoulder and she could feel him laugh against her. She wasn’t sure if she appreciated that. Particularly when it felt like her teeth were only a few seconds away from chattering.

“It feels like it’s going to snow,” Emma continued, well aware that she was whining and a grown adult and just steps in front of her kids who would, inevitably, believe her complaining about the weather and the impending _blizzard_ she swore was coming, meant they could also complain.

She chanced a glance over her shoulder at Chris, arms wrapped tightly around his waist and a scowl on his face that, if they were about to face some kind of blizzard in the middle of April, would probably freeze that way.

“What’s the matter, kid?” Emma asked and Killian nearly tripped over his own feet when she stopped short. He pressed his lips together tightly, likely biting back a string of curses that didn’t belong in front of an eleven-year-old and the few people who were, also, walking through the Minneapolis Airport.

“Nothing,” Chris grumbled, moving his arms so he could stuff his hands in his pockets. Emma’s eyes darted towards Killian, his own gaze bordering on questioning, but he didn’t say anything.

They were still a few years away from teenage angst but, of all their kids, Chris was probably the most likely to wander towards anything resembling stereotypes. Their kids were all, by some apparent rule of the universe, _loud_ and competitive and something that might have been classified as determined, but, more often than not, Emma and Killian found to be a penchant for breaking the rules.

It was probably karma for all the times Killian had snuck onto the uptown one when he was a kid and Emma had stolen Pop-Tarts more than once from several dozen convenience stores while she was bouncing between foster houses and group homes. In fact, she was fairly positive that she’d stolen several boxes of chocolate-frosted Pop-Tarts from a store not too far from their hotel when she was seventeen.

She probably wouldn’t mention that later.

It wasn’t much of an anecdote, especially before a National Championship game and they had a schedule to stick to and nerves to ignore.

Emma was nervous.

Still. Always. Every time Matt laced up his skates or got hit and Killian would laugh as soon as she squeezed her eyes shut, muttering something about _that’s just part of the game, Swan_ under his breath. And then he’d probably press a kiss to the top of her hair and both Peggy and Chris would groan loudly.

Maybe they were just dealing with teenage angst.

Chris still hadn’t moved, eyes looking anywhere except Emma and Killian, a goal made all the easier by the sandy hair falling in his eyes. Emma reached up to brush it away, clicking her tongue when Chris nearly growled at her and he was far too tall already.

“Seriously, kid,” Emma sighed. “What’s your deal? And when’s the last time you got your hair cut?”  
  
“A couple months ago,” he said. .

“That’s not the question I was really interested in getting an answer to.”  
  
Chris shrugged, tugging the hood of his Rangers-branded sweatshirt over his head. Emma widened her eyes, trying to fall into _mom_ in the middle of the airport, but that was difficult when someone rolled a suitcase over her toe.

“Don’t we have to go?” Peggy asked, sounding almost exactly the same way Emma had when she was complaining about the temperature in a temperature-controlled airport. “Anna said they were going to be at the hotel an hour ago.”

“Yeah, why are we always late?” Chris asked. “We’re never on time for anything important.”

“That’s not true at all,” Emma argued and Killian smirked at her. “Oh, shut up,” she muttered and the smirk, somehow, got stronger. “How come they haven’t just rolled out several red carpets for you, huh? Don’t the people of Minnesota have some kind of sixth sense that you’re here as soon as you land?”  
  
“Like, collectively?” Killian asked, ignoring whatever Peggy was doing with her face. “That’s a pretty lame super power as far as state-wide super powers go.”  
  
Emma groaned, shivering when they moved closer to the doors and the cabs and they really were late. It wasn’t their fault though – there’d been rain and sitting on the tarmac for a questionably long period of time and they really should have planned all of this better because, somehow, they’d all ended up on different flights out of New York.

It was definitely snowing.

“Ok, but seriously,” Emma started, nodding when a cab driver jumped their direction, “we are not always late. We are on time for us.”  
  
“Sounds like a fancy way of saying we’re late and don’t want to admit to it,” Chris mumbled and Peggy couldn’t quite stop her laughter, biting down tightly on her lip. He stopped talking as soon as Killian looked at him – pulling the suitcase out of his hand and dumping into the open trunk and _something_ was going on.

“You done?” Emma asked.

“Yeah.”  
  
“Yeah, what?” Killian pressed, one hand on Chris’ shoulder as he directed him towards the backseat of the cab.

Chris sighed, shoulders heaving dramatically with the effort. “Yeah, sorry, Mom.”

“There we go.”  
  
“And anyway,” Emma continued, swinging the door shut behind her while Killian gave the driver directions. “We got here before most of the New York contingent. That’s, like, sixteen bonus points and, at least, eight bets.”  
  
Killian scoffed from the front seat and it would be some kind of miracle if any of those flights would be able to land in the next few hours. It was definitely a blizzard. In April. Two days before the NCAA hockey finals and Matt Jones, captain of the Boston University team, was set to take the ice with a small army of supporters in the stands.

In Minnesota.

Of _fucking_ course it was Minnesota.

“There are no bets about any of this,” Killian said seriously, not even bothering to turn around. Peggy laughed again. That got him to turn around. And she stopped laughing rather quickly. “Something funny about that, Margaret?”  
  
“Oh, that’s cheating,” she accused and something in the very _center_ of Emma flipped and flopped at the tone of her voice, sounding far too much like her.

Killian nodded. “It absolutely is. Tell me what you bet.”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“Margaret.”

She groaned, shoulders going slack and her whole body shifted when she tried to roll her eyes, the ends of her hair, somehow, hitting both Emma and Chris in the backseat of the cab. “It’s Rol’s fault,” she said quickly. “He’s not going to be here, but he wanted to keep track of how many shots MD took and he knew…”  
  
“The only way you’d do that is if you had something to bet on,” Killian finished.

“See, it sounds bad when you say it like that.”  
  
“It’s not exactly the most sibling thing I’ve ever heard, Peg.”  
  
“I said that MD was going to take, at least, ten and Rol said that was ridiculous. No one would take that many shots, but you know, MD is who he is, so I obviously took the over and I’m going to win.”  
  
“What were your stakes?” Emma asked. Killian rolled his eyes. “What? I’m honestly curious. And he’d definitely take ten shots if he could.”

Peggy made some kind of triumphant noise, her hair moving again as she nodded enthusiastically. “Thank you,” she shouted. “See, Mom gets it.”  
  
“Stakes, Peg,” Killian repeated.

“He’s got to bring me to Serendipity when he’s home during the offseason. And pay. Obviously. I mean he just signed that big deal.”  
  
“How do you know about that?”  
  
“Dad,” Peggy sighed and the ends of Killian’s twitched. “For real? It was everywhere. All the time. They actually acknowledged hockey on ESPN.”  
  
Emma laughed – loudly and before she’d really considered just how far the sound would carry in the cramped confines of a cab going painfully slow on icy Minnesota roads. Killian gaped at her. “What?” she asked. “That was actually kind of funny.”  
  
“That’s insulting to the whole sport, Swan,” Killian muttered. “And Rol better hope Peg doesn’t win because getting roped into Serendipity is…”  
  
“Frozen hot chocolate, Dad,” Peggy interrupted. “Frozen. Hot. Chocolate. I don’t even care about the food. Rol can do whatever he wants with that. And the lines won’t be that long during the summer. Whatever. He was super into this bet. I’m just helping Rol maintain his sanity during the final week of the regular season.”  
  
“Don’t bring that up later. Locksley is already on some other level of pre-playoff worry. Plus, you know, he’ll be in enemy territory for a whole weekend. It’s throwing him off.”  
  
Emma chuckled, absently toying with the ends of Peggy’s hair until she actually shifted on the seat and rolled her shoulders, some unspoken request to try and tame the mess of dark waves. “They won the President’s Trophy,” Emma pointed out.

“Don’t mention that either.”  
  
“What is he so worried about?”  
  
Killian shrugged. “Absurd athletic superstition.”  
  
“Is that why you keep tapping your foot up there?”  
  
Peggy winced when she laughed, moving too quickly and too suddenly for Emma to loosen her grip on her hair, and even Chris pulled his head away from the window to glance up towards the passenger’s seat. Killian crossed his legs, tongue pressed against the side of his cheek, but his eyes were still bright and Emma’s heart stammered in her chest.

It probably shouldn’t still be like that.

No, she thought quickly, wrapping a hair tie around the end of her daughter’s hair – it should be exactly like that.

Even if _that_ usually ended with all three of their kids yelling _gross_ in their faces.

“What exactly is it you’re suggesting, Swan?” Killian asked, eyes darting back towards Chris when his head thumped against the window again. “Ok, honestly,” he said. “What’s going on? We’re almost downtown. You can stage whatever temper tantrum you’re having once we get out of the car, ok?”  
  
“I’m not doing that,” Chris argued, but his voice wasn’t quite even and it must have been difficult to talk pressed up against a slightly frosted window.

Emma shrugged when Killian looked back at her. “I’m suggesting you’re also chock-full of absurd athletic superstition and you wouldn’t take either Ruby or Scarlet’s attempted bets when it came to this game.”  
  
“What could we have to bet on? They’re going to win.”  
  
“That confidence, Cap.”  
  
“Obviously. Although it is kind of weird being _here_ for this.”  
  
“That’s because the entire state of Minnesota is pointless.”  
  
“Don’t tell that to the general populace of Minnesota. Or Liam,” he added, glancing down at his phone when it buzzed in his hand. “Who is, apparently, already driving El and Anna insane with stories of school.”  
  
“I’ve been avoiding the group text for exactly that reason,” Emma laughed. Her phone had been buzzing non-stop since they’d gotten off the plane.

“They’re not even playing in that arena. It doesn’t make sense.”  
  
“He’s nostalgic.”  
  
“He’s annoying.”  
  
“Look who’s throwing temper tantrums now.”  
  
Killian’s eyes flashed at her, but there were kids in the back set and they were, apparently, at the hotel and Emma’s phone was going to explode at any moment, she was positive. “You should probably answer that, Mom,” Chris mumbled, nodding towards the bag that was actually _shaking_ at this point. “Leo said Uncle David and Reese’s are fairly certain you’re dead.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Chris shrugged, some kind of dismissive noise coming from the back of his throat as he nodded towards her phone again. She had sixty-five text messages.

“Holy shit,” Emma mumbled under her breath, earning a pair of matching wide-eyed stares from her kids and she was setting some kind of horrible example at this point. She’d blame it on nerves. And Killian tapping his foot again.

“Are most of them El and Anna complaining?” Killian asked knowingly.

“No, like, half of them are David reciting crime records at me.”  
  
Killian laughed, swinging open the front door of the cab and there was more than a dusting of snow on the ground. Minnesota was the worst place in the world.

He was right, this was, decidedly, weird.

And her kids didn’t know about that year Emma spent in Minnesota or the Pop-Tarts she’d stolen. They’d, well, they’d avoided all of that – no point in dwelling on a past that was nothing short of depressing.

Let Minnesota be Liam’s history and his nostalgia and Matt’s, absolutely certain, NCAA championship.

This trip was going to drive them all insane.

And David needed some kind of hobby – he was standing under the awning or _whatever_ in front of the hotel, arms crossed tightly over his chest and maybe they were as late as Chris promised they were.

“Oh my God,” Peggy grumbled, flipping her hair back over her shoulder and, at least, half of it had fallen out of the braid already. “Is that some kind of historic building?” she asked, nodding across the street. “Is Dad going to make us learn something?”  
  
“You enjoyed those trips, Margaret,” Killian yelled, already trying to fight off the driver over their luggage.

“And you were young enough that you didn’t have any say in it whatsoever,” Emma added conspiratorially. “Plus, he didn’t answer you, that means he doesn’t know what that building is.”  
  
Killian slammed the trunk closed. “The capitol, Swan. Obviously. And if you don’t think Liam made us go there while we were at school, then you haven’t been paying attention.”  
  
“For the last two decades?”  
  
He grinned at her, laden down with bags and something that still felt a lot like _absurd athletic superstition_ , but his eyebrows jumped when he took a step towards her, ducking his head and brushing his lips across hers. And it felt like she was breathing for the first time since they’d taken off from JFK that morning.

What an emotional loser.

It was, absolutely, because their kid was going to be on national TV later that night. In Minnesota. God damn Minnesota.

And because Ruby had told Emma that, at least, six different media outlets had tried to go through her to request interviews with both Killian and Liam.

She wasn’t sure if he knew that.

Probably not.

Ruby wasn’t an idiot.

“Ok, you guys are aware that there are children around, right?” David asked, amusement in his voice as he grabbed two suitcases out of Killian’s hands.

“Yeah, I mean, ours,” Emma reasoned. David groaned. “Why are you lurking out here? That’s weird. It’s cold.”  
  
“It’s April, Emma.”  
  
“Why does everyone keep using that as some kind of explanation? It doesn’t change the fact that Minnesota is the absolute worst state in the entire country and it’s snowing.”  
  
“What’s the matter with you?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“Nothing?”  
  
“Nothing,” Emma nodded deftly, but Killian had his arm around her waist and her head had fallen on his shoulder before she even realized she’d moved.

David hummed, shifting his weight when he tried to cross his arms again and found he couldn’t while holding several days worth of luggage. “And I was waiting for you guys because we’ve been here for an hour already.”  
  
“How is that even possible?”

“See, I told you,” Peggy said, making a face when Chris stalked by her, hands stuffed in his pockets and hood still up and eyes trying to bore a hole into his sneakers. “We’re always late. It’s just how we operate.”  
  
“That is true, Em,” David agreed. He pressed a kiss against Peggy’s cheek, trying to push her back towards the door. “Is one of these suitcases yours, Peg? Is that why my arms being pulled out of its socket?”  
  
Peggy shot him a glare, eyes narrowing and David’s smile widened. “Mom and Dad have been obsessed with the weather for a week. I had to be prepared. Don’t be mean, Uncle David.”  
  
“Never, kid. Go inside. Mary Margaret’s commandeered the hot water machine in the lobby and, somehow, found hot chocolate packets.”  
  
“If it means Dad’s not going to force us to go to the Minnesota state capitol to learn facts no one cares about then, yeah, I’m down,” Peggy announced, grabbing her suitcase back out of David’s hands and practically running into the hotel lobby.

Killian looked stricken, frozen in between stunned and just a bit frustrated and David pulled his lips back behind his teeth so he wouldn’t draw the ire of a visibly nervous hockey-dad in the middle of downtown St. Paul.

“You have to admit, you’d totally do that,” Emma laughed. “How did we not end up there at some point?”  
  
“Because St. Paul is the lesser of the Twin Cities,” Killian said quickly and easily, like that was, simply, common knowledge. “Seriously, what is going on with Chris, though? He was more excited than anybody about this whole run a couple of weeks ago.”

Emma shrugged. “Maybe he’s got a secret fear of flying we never knew about. Does that make us shitty parents?”  
  
“Parents of the year, twenty years running, Swan.”  
  
David clicked his tongue, digging his toe into the snowy ground underneath his foot and Emma felt something like dread settle into the pit of her stomach. “What?”

“He really didn’t say anything?” Emma shook her head. “Well, I don’t know anything specific, but...uh, Leo mentioned that he’d been asking questions about baseball.”  
  
It was like he’d started talking in a completely different language. Emma blinked, pulling her head up and rolling her shoulders and she didn’t think she imagined the way Killian’s hold on her tightened.

“Baseball?” Emma repeated and David nodded.

“So he said.”  
  
“Why would he be asking about baseball?”  
  
“Beats me. I mean, it’s April, so you know, ‘tis the season or whatever. And Leo’s starting again this year. So, maybe Chris is just...interested.”  
  
“In baseball?”

“There are more sports out there than just hockey, Em,” David said.

Emma made a noise, squeezing one eye closed and she felt Killian press a kiss against her temple. “C’mon, love,” he said softly and it felt like _everything_ had shifted right there in the middle of St. Paul, Minnesota. “It’s freezing out here.”  
  
Liam didn’t make them go to Minneapolis, but it was almost _too_ close for complete pre-game comfort. And then he really only stopped because Mr. Vankald pulled him to the corner of the hotel lobby and talked to him in hushed tones for a few minutes and Emma was far too busy laughing at _that_ to worry about traipsing to the other side of the Mississippi River.

Ruby had gotten them a suite.

Of course she had.

And Mrs. Vankald had gotten them shirts.

Of course she had.

Emma wasn’t sure which one was more embarrassing – if the dramatic sighs that came from everyone under the age of twenty years old were any indication, then it was definitely the shirts. “Isn’t this some kind of NCAA violation?” Lizzie asked, tugging on the bottom of the shirt until both Anna and Elsa moved to pull her hand away at the same time.

“We’re not selling them,” Robin reasoned. He was wearing a Boston University hat. It made his ears look ridiculous. Although, he couldn’t really compete with Will who had, at some point in between landing four hours before and getting in the cab to the Xcel Energy Center painted his face red.

“And that makes a difference?”  
  
“In the eyes of the NCAA, yes. As long as we don’t make Matt sign them and make people pay for them, we’re all in the clear.”  
  
“That’s stupid.”  
  
“Ah, well, take it up with the powers that be, Lizzie.”  
  
“Don’t say that,” Anna sighed, pushing her camera in Killian’s face as she spoke. “Now, she’s going to try and take on the entire NCAA single-handedly.”  
  
Lizzie shrugged – neither a confirmation nor a denial that she was, suddenly, going to change law tracks so she could make sure Matt made money off t-shirts Mrs. Vankald got screen printed downtown. “Whatever,” she said. “As long as Mattie gets at least goal point tonight, I’m in the clear.”  
  
Killian quirked his eyebrows and Ruby was already laughing, bent over a counter in the back corner of the suite and there was _food_ there too. Emma’s stomach flipped at the thought of eating. Or moving.

God, why was she so nervous?

“Elizabeth,” he said slowly and Peggy mumbled _captain_ under her voice, elbowing Lizzie in the side like she couldn’t hear Killian perfectly. “Are you betting on Matt too?”  
  
Lizzie didn’t blink – and she totally got that from Elsa – just smiled and shrugged again. “I can neither confirm nor deny that I may or may not be part of a bet with Uncle Will over how many points Mattie scores tonight.”

“Oh that was good,” Liam laughed, turning back with a plate full of fried food in his hand.

“She absolutely lawyer’ed you up, KJ,” Anna added. Killian was going to rip that camera out of her hands. Or maybe just start pacing and cursing under his breath. “Serves you right anyway. We’ve all spent our whole lives watching you play. Taste of your own medicine or something.”  
  
“That actually sounds kind of vengeful, Banana,” Killian said.

“I’m just saying. No one is going to be surprised when you start cursing in Norwegian later on tonight too. It’s, like, some kind of weird circle of life, family bonding thing.”  
  
“I think you’re confusing your metaphors.”  
  
“I honestly don’t care.” She took another picture. “Get something to drink.”  
  
“Isn’t _that_ an NCAA violation?”  
  
“Here, Cap,” Ruby said, pushing a glass of something towards his hand. “No. That’s the answer you’re looking for. Not when it’s a tournament and not on campus and even sometimes on campus. I don’t know how college football works. I only know Xcel isn’t about to miss out on alcohol revenue because they want to live up to some _pure_ expectation.”

She turned on her heels, nodding towards the corner of the counter – covered in bottles. “You too, Em. You look a lil’ green.”  
  
“I’m fine,” Emma promised and every single person in the suite, including two of her kids and both of her quasi-in-laws, scoffed. Except Ruth Nolan. She was nine. She didn’t understand terror quite yet. “What? Jeez, you guys are assholes.”

Emma’s eyes widened when she realized she’d included Mr. and Mrs. Vankald in that – _and two of her kids_ – but Ruby just laughed, pushing on her shoulder and directing her back towards the alcohol. “Deep breaths, Em,” she whispered, grabbing vodka without even asking.

“I’m not drinking that straight.”  
  
“Perish the thought.”  
  
Mary Margaret appeared next to them as quickly as if she’d teleported there, a twenty painted on both of her cheeks and a BU scarf that Emma was fairly positive she’d had since freshman year of college. “Here,” she said, dropping a plastic bottle of cranberry juice on the counter. “You know that cost me three bucks in the vending machine. That’s insane.”  
  
“Why are you buying vending machine cranberry juice?” Emma asked. “And where was this vending machine?”  
  
“In the hotel lobby and…”  
  
“Can we focus please,” Ruby interrupted, mixing drinks quickly and Emma got the distinct impression that it was, at least, three quarters vodka.

Mary Margaret nodded solemnly. “Right, right, of course.”  
  
“I’m, sorry, what are we focusing on, exactly?”

“Aside from how green your face is?”  
  
“I really don’t think drinking cranberry vodkas like I’m a junior in college is going to help. Plus, I can barely handle dealing with overprotective Killian and the bets, I don’t need to hear David muttering _poker face_ under his breath during every faceoff.”  
  
“He wouldn’t do that while mini-Jones was in the circle.”  
  
“So every other shift then.” Mary Margaret pulled the drink out of Emma’s hand and took a very healthy gulp, earning matching looks of surprise from both Emma and Ruby. “Oh my God, Reese’s, what just happened here?”

“I needed that,” she said simply and Ruby looked like she’d just seen a ghost. At least seventy-two ghosts. Probably dancing. Or something.

Emma downed the rest of the drink, shivering when the alcohol hit her stomach, and Killian was staring at her. Peggy and Lizzie were both already pacing, some kind of weird déjà vu moment that Emma wasn’t entirely sure she appreciated, while Chris was curled into the chair on the far corner of the row, chin resting on his knees and that same Rangers sweatshirt on over his BU shirt.

“Needed that for what?” Emma pressed. “What do you guys know that I don’t know?”  
  
“I mean you kind of know,” Mary Margaret said, but her voice was soft and just a bit disappointed. She sounded like she wanted to be anywhere except a suite at the Xcel Energy Center, forty-five minutes before puck drop of a national semifinal.

“I promise I don’t.”  
  
“David said he talked to you.”  
  
Emma closed her eyes and she felt Ruby’s fingers wrap around her wrist, trying to hold her hand steady while she poured more vodka in her cup. “Oh my God, Rubes, stop it,” she hissed and Ruby widened her eyes in frustration. “Is this about that baseball thing?”

“This is very much about that baseball thing. And what Ariel knows about that baseball thing.”  
  
“This team gossips way too much,” Ruby muttered, hopping onto the edge of the counter and Emma couldn’t really disagree with her. She pressed up on her toes, using Mary Margaret’s shoulder for leverage, to find Leo crouched in front of Chris, trying to talk to him and being resolutely ignored.

Something was wrong.

There went parents of the year.

“What does Ariel have to do with any of this?” Emma asked sharply. Killian’s head snapped up – some kind of sixth sense, but she shook her head immediately. Matt was out on the ice.

Mary Margaret looked like she was on the verge of tears. “It wasn’t really A’s fault. I guess Chris texted her before you guys left this morning with a whole string of questions and then you guys were late getting here and I just…”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I didn’t know how to tell you while we were in the hotel and you were talking to Matt and…”  
  
“Reese’s you can’t keep trailing off like that.”  
  
She gritted her teeth, pulling in a deep breath slowly and they were missing warmups. “Chris texted Ariel about foot injuries. And how to treat them.”

Emma nearly collapsed on the floor.

The edge of the counter dug into her spine and she could feel the alcohol in her gut fermenting or something equally disgusting. Mary Margaret just kept twisting her fingers, eyes darting around the suite, and Killian was still staring.

Emma could feel it.

“She said that she couldn’t get in touch with you or Killian,” Mary Margaret continued, seemingly unaware of the _complete_ breakdown Emma was staging. Oh shit, she hadn’t answered her phone. She’d bragged about ignoring her phone.

“Oh my God,” Emma sighed, but it sounded a bit more like a moan and she couldn’t really hold her alcohol anymore.

“I really don’t think it’s anything bad. If it was Ariel probably would have walked to Minnesota.”  
  
“She wouldn’t have gotten here before puck drop.”  
  
“Then she would have willed Cap to answer his phone,” Ruby promised, an encouraging smile tugging on the corner of her lips. “You know if something was really wrong.”  
  
Emma didn’t know what to do. Her mind was racing a mile a minute – each thought worse than the next and maybe Chris had been limping that afternoon. She hadn’t really been looking. She should have been looking.

She should have just _known_.

She was way too worried about coming back to Minnesota and the weather in Minnesota and, _fuck_ , she just wanted Matt to win a national championship.

And maybe get Liam to stop talking about the University of Minnesota.

Emma’s breath was shaky at best, barely doing anything when she pulled it in and she was wobbling just a bit from emotion and vodka and a distinct lack of cranberry juice to counteract her alcohol consumption.

That didn’t last long.

_Mom mode_ , activated.

“Christopher,” she shouted and he nearly jumped out of the chair, biting his lip tightly when his feet landed on the ground. Emma glanced quickly at Mary Margaret, sure her expression matched the nervous look on her friend’s face.

“Uh...yeah?” he asked and, at some point, he’d worked a hole in the sleeve of his sweatshirt. His thumb was poking through.

“Hallway.”

Emma turned before he could answer, squaring her shoulders and swinging the door open so quickly it nearly pulled her into the wall. Chris mumbled something and she could hear Killian answer, some kind of _you heard your mom, go_ , that resulted in not-quite-quick footsteps behind her.

She’d never been in this part of the Xcel – hadn’t really been to the Xcel that much if she were being honest, most of her memories of Minnesota were focused on that very first deadline day – but a hallway was a hallway and there had to be a corner they could, at least, borrow for a few minutes.

“Mom?” Chris asked, nearly colliding with Emma when she came to an abrupt stop a few feet away from the suite. “What’s going on?”  
  
“You want to rephrase that question?” He looked nervous. And Emma felt like an asshole. She sighed, pulling on the edge of his sleeve and tapping her thumb against his. “Why’d you text A this morning?”

His eyes widened and he took a step back quickly, stumbling over his sneakers. One of them was untied. If she wasn’t so worried, Emma probably would have laughed.

“How do you know about that?” Chris stammered.

“Well, first of all, you should know by now that asking anyone on this roster anything is going to end up with it, somehow, getting back to me or Dad. But, second of all, why didn’t you want me to know about that?”  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
“If you expect me to believe that, you might as well expect me to walk home in a couple of days.”  
  
“A couple of days?”  
  
Emma nodded. “Yeah, well, when they win tonight, they won’t play again for another two days.”  
  
“Oh, right, right,” Chris mumbled. He was going to do permanent damage to his lip. And if Matt had inherited Killian’s penchant for tugging on his hair, then Chris had absolutely gotten the whole lip thing from Emma. “They’re totally going to win.”  
  
“I know they are. Stop trying to get me not to worry about you.”  
  
“What?” The question sent a shockwave through Emma’s entire body, the genuine surprise that colored all four words. Chris’ jaw dropped, knees buckling slightly and maybe she should have brought Killian into the hallway too. “You can’t...you can’t tell, Dad,” Chris continued, digging his heel into the carpet.

He hissed in pain when he moved the wrong way.

Emma’s mouth felt dry. It was definitely because of the vodka. “That’s not how this works, kid,” she said slowly, doing her best not to stumble over any of the words. “The truth. Why’d you ask Ariel about ankle injuries?”  
  
Chris wavered for a moment, that bottom lip stilled pulled tightly between his teeth, and Emma took a cautious step towards him. He shook his head, bending down to tug on the bottom of his jeans and she gasped before she could stop herself.

Emma had seen her fair share of bruises – had seen her fair share of Killian’s bruises, had argued about playing time and physical therapy appointments and what color a bruise should be four days after a particularly hard hit.

She should have been prepared for a moment like this.

She absolutely wasn’t.

Not when it was her kid.

And not when his ankle looked like a goddamn fucking _purple_ baseball.

“Oh,” she breathed, dropping down and it probably should have hurt when her knees collided with the floor. It was probably something to do with adrenaline. She’d ask Mary Margaret. Mary Margaret didn’t teach science. “How are you even walking on this?”

He shrugged, but his eyes were glassy and there was a faint trace of blood on the corner of his lip. Emma wouldn't have been surprised if her heart had actually shattered, while crouched on an arena floor with a carpet that rivaled the Garden for absolute awfulness.

“Christopher,” she continued, standing back up and brushing his hair out of his eyes. Again. He should really get it cut. After they figured out how he was still standing. “I want a straight answer. When did this happen?”  
  
“A couple weeks ago.”  
  
“Weeks?” Emma screeched and Chris tried to back up again. She wrapped her fingers tightly around his shoulder.

“You’re mom-facing me.”  
  
“I’m going to mom-face you for the next twenty years. And then another several decades after for this. Why didn’t you tell us? Have you been skating on this?”  
  
He’d had practice earlier that week. Hell, he’d been at the Garden three days before and Emma knew for a fact he’d gone on the ice with Killian and the rookies, a pre-playoff _thing_ that Merida had done video for.

Killian was never going to forgive himself.

Emma might not either.

“I mean kind of,” Chris mumbled. “I...well I had practice and Dad had that thing. I was ok. ‘Ish.”  
  
“‘Ish,” Emma repeated. She shook her head and tried to regain some parental confidence she was fairly positive she’d left in the suite with the vodka and the overpriced cranberry juice. “Christopher Jones, do you mean to tell me you’ve been skating around with an ankle like that for weeks and you never thought to mention it?”

“No, no, it wasn’t really like that.”  
  
“Then explain what it was like.”

He sighed and he was going to rip the sleeve of his sweatshirt in half. “I got hit a couple weeks ago. By one of the kids on my team. He shot from just inside the zone and it hit my ankle. And I thought I was ok.”

“But?”  
  
“But,” Chris continued. “It, uh, got kind of gross over the next couple of days. So I put some ice on it.” Emma opened her mouth to argue, and probably mention that her eleven-year-old should seek adult supervision when he was _injured_ , but he made a face and it was so Killian-esque that Emma nearly forgot who she was talking to. “Mom, seriously. I know how hits work. I put ice on it and the swelling went down.”  
  
“Chris” she said, nodding towards his foot. “That does not look like the swelling has gone down. And it still doesn’t explain why you’re talking to A.”  
  
His lip was bleeding again. And he couldn’t seem to stop flexing his hand. Either of them. Emma kept blinking. “You really can’t tell Dad,” Chris whispered. “He’s gonna be so mad.”  
  
“The truth, Christopher.”

“When we were at the Garden a couple days ago...uh, I got tripped up. I, well, I was trying to clock myself so I could brag to Matt when we got here, but…” He took a deep breath and he was resting all his weight on his left foot. It probably hurt to wear his sneaker. “One of the rookies got in my way, moved his stick while I was skating and I...fell. It was super lame.”  
  
Emma let out a watery laugh, torn between worry and trying to figure out how many rookies Killian was going to kill and the sheer, unadulterated terror that was anything ever happening to her kids. “Super lame, huh?”  
  
“Like. The absolute lamest. I tripped over the stick and I rolled my ankle. And it was fine while I was skating.”  
  
“Another but?”  
  
Chris nodded. “But then, the next morning, I woke up and it was...gross.”  
  
“Green?”  
  
“Like...black.”

“Oh, Chris,” Emma sighed and she couldn’t rationalize a single reason for not holding onto him as tightly as she possible could. “Here, come here, kid. Sit. You’re making me nervous.”  
  
He slid down the wall, stretching his legs out and resting his head on Emma’s shoulder without a single complaint. And she couldn’t remember the last time that happened. “Why didn’t you tell Dad when you were at the Garden?”  
  
Chris mumbled a string of unintelligible syllables, pressing his face into Emma’s hair. “I’m not kidding, kid,” she continued. “Dad would have been mad at the rookie, not at you.”  
  
“That’s not true.”  
  
“What?” Emma gasped and Chris grumbled when she knocked his head back against the wall. “Oh, shit. Oh, damn, _God_ ,” she huffed, “Christopher William Jones. Do you really think Dad would be mad at you for getting hurt?”  
  
Chris didn’t answer. And that might have been an answer.

“He wouldn’t,” Emma promised. “He’s worried about you. We’re both worried about you.”  
  
Silence.

Well, mostly silence. They were announcing lines and getting ready for anthems and Emma was frozen to an absolutely atrocious looking carpet with the weight of several galaxies sitting in her gut.

“I’m not very good at skating,” Chris whispered, an eternity later and Emma wondered if they could hear her heart snap in half on the ice. “I’m not as good as Matt.”  
  
“You don’t have…”  
  
“No, Mom, come on,” he interrupted sharply. He was probably going to have to get stitches in his lip. “You can’t even lie about it. I’m never going to be as good as Matt or as fast as Matt and, I mean, Dad won three Stanley Cups. They’re going to retire his jersey and then probably build a statue of him on Broadway.”  
  
“He’d hate that.”  
  
“They’d do it anyway.”

“Yeah, that’s probably true,” Emma admitted and Chris laughed. That felt like a bit of a victory. “No one’s expecting you to live up to some kind of legacy, Chris.”  
  
“Yeah, well, that’s not really how it works. I mean, Matt’s going to win tonight and then he’s going to declare and Peg’s going to win eight-hundred Gold medals and I’m just….”  
  
“Eleven,” she finished. “You’re eleven years old. You don’t have to have it all figured out right now. You shouldn’t.”  
  
“I’m a really crappy skater, Mom.”

She closed her eyes, not entirely prepared for this. Mom of the...not much at all. “That doesn’t mean you have to stop playing, kid. Not if you don’t want to.”  
  
Chris made a noise, something that sounded like several decades before and hallways in St. Paul and a very distinct type of emotion. “Oh,” Emma breathed, understanding settling into the back of her mind. “I get it.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Dad won’t be mad, Chris. No one will be mad.”  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
“Definitely. Is that why you were asking Leo about baseball?”  
  
“How do you know that?” he asked, staring at her like she’d just predicted the winning lottery numbers for the next year.

“I’m your mom, I know everything. And Uncle David was worried about you.”  
  
“Figures.”  
  
“That’s not a bad thing,” Emma said, bumping her shoulder against Chris and his head dropped down dramatically. She tugged him closer to her side and, suddenly, she knew exactly what to say. “You want to know something?”  
  
He hummed and this almost-teenage nonsense was going to get real old, real quick. “Was that a yes, then?” she pressed, rolling her shoulder again and Chris groaned when she kissed the top of his hoodie.

“Yeah,” he mumbled.

“You know how we’ve talked about how I grew up? I lived all over the place and everything?” Another hum. “Well, when I was about Peggy’s age, I lived here. Or, well, in Minnesota. The house was a couple hours away.”  
  
“Here?” Chris repeated, suddenly interested in the story. Emma tried not to roll her eyes.

“Yup. In Minnesota. And, for the first time ever, someone was going to adopt me. There was paperwork and a plan and everything was all set. Until, suddenly, it wasn’t.”  
  
“What happened?”  
  
“The lady who was going to adopt me left. She...well, she didn’t want to anymore or something and she was gone. So I moved into another group home and I graduated high school and then I went to BU. And I stumbled into life with Reese’s and Uncle David and then found everything else.”

“With hockey,” Chris added sullenly. “I know how this story goes, Mom.”  
  
“No, you don’t,” she argued. “That’s what I’m saying. And this is not some long-form guilt trip. It wasn’t hockey. It was...everything else. It was finding Uncle David and Reese’s and then Ruby and getting to New York because she believed in me. It was everyone that was in New York, that whole roster of people in the suite.”

“See, I thought I’d lost my chance for a family when that woman walked away and left me in Minnesota, but I was wrong,” Emma continued, voice shaking just a bit and Chris stared at her like he couldn’t quite believe what she was saying. “They were here. And _that’s_ what I’m saying. You’ve got that. From every angle.”  
  
“But Dad…”  
  
“No, there are no buts here. Listen to me. Right now. Dad will not care. Will he be frustrated that you’ve been skating on some kind of totally screwed up ankle for weeks? Definitely. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to care about hockey or baseball or anything except you being happy and walking on two fully-functioning ankles.”  
  
He gaped at her, eyes darting across her face like he was looking for the lie and surprised when he couldn’t find one. And then he leapt at her.

Emma grunted when an eleven-year-old with a shitty ankle collided with every inch of her and none of their kids had ever really learned how to control any of their limbs. She gritted her teeth when a knee collided with some internal organ, but she didn’t move, just held on as tightly as she possibly could.

She wasn’t sure who was crying more.

Or how long they stayed out there. She just kept muttering words under breath, quite reassurances and promises and anything she could think of, hoping to will just a bit of confidence into her kid.

The door opened at the other end of the hallway and Emma glanced up over the top of Chris’ head to find a slightly cautious looking Robin walking towards them, eyebrows pulled low and concern practically rolling off him.

“Cap wanted to come out,” he explained. “But they’re about to face off and I said…”  
  
“Thanks,” Emma interrupted. “We’re...well, thanks.”  
  
Robin shrugged, crouching down and tugging on the back of Chris’ sweatshirt. “What’s your deal, ‘Toph?”  
  
“I don’t have a deal,” Chris mumbled, burying his face even further into Emma’s side and her spleen wasn’t ever going to recover. Robin hummed, leaning forward to tap on the side of Chris’ sneaker.

“Yuh huh,” he laughed softly. “Sure. You just walk around with a limp all the time then, huh?”  
  
“I haven’t been limping!”  
  
“A distinct limp.”  
  
“Whatever.”  
  
“You and Cap better prepare yourselves, Emma,” Robin chuckled. “This one’s going to be bursting with teenage angst.”  
  
Emma smiled before she remembered all the reasons she probably shouldn’t and they should really find someone to look at Chris’ ankle sooner rather than later, but Robin just met her grin with one of his own, eyes a bit brighter than they’d been all day.

“Ah, we’ll cope,” Emma promised, pressing a kiss to the top of Chris’ head and, somehow, smiling even wider when her son made an absolutely disgusted noise in response.

“You know,” Robin continued. “When Henry was in school, he took a couple of sports management classes. Gina was thrilled, obviously, but it never quite took. He was always going to write. But,” he said, snapping his jaw on the word and staring at Chris with a very specific type of meaning, “we’ve still got some books. And Gina. And a whole slew of experience in agent’ing and money’ing. That’s not a word. Don’t tell Gina I said that to try and explain her job.”  
  
Chris laughed.

And Emma’s eyes widened slightly.

Robin grinned, resting his hand on Chris’ shoulder and nodding encouragingly.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Chris muttered. “Plus, I know money’ing isn’t a word. I’m eleven. I go to school.”  
  
“Sure you do.” Chris made a face, scowling at Robin who, at some point Emma was convinced, was going to do permanent damage to his calves if he didn’t stand back up. “Here,” he said, holding his hand out and helping Chris stand back up. “Let’s go tell Gina she’s got a new apprentice and you can make sure you don’t actually sever any of your mom’s internal organs. Your dad won’t appreciate that.”  
  
“Ew.”

“Right?”  
  
They were halfway back down the hallway and Robin had been right – the limp was absolutely obvious – when Chris froze on the spot, snapping his head back over his shoulder and staring at Emma with a look she couldn’t quite name and wasn’t sure she was entirely ready for. “Mom?” he asked.

Emma hadn’t moved. “Yeah?”  
  
“I….,” he huffed, swallowing quickly and tugging on the hair that curled just behind his ear. “I...well, you’re the best.”  
  
And that heart, the one that she swore she could hear breaking as soon as she saw Chris’ ankle just a few minutes before, seemed to stitch itself back together in the middle of the hallway and grow, at least, sixteen sizes and _Emma Swan, mom_ was, maybe, doing an alright job after all.

Regina was, as expected, thrilled at the prospect of Chris seeming even remotely interested in anything to do with the _money_ side of the game. And Matt was, as expected, nothing short of dominant in the national semifinal, making sure Lizzie won her bet and Peggy won her bet and securing a berth to the title game two days later.

And, of course, Killian was, as expected, absolutely furious that no one had told him his son was hurt.

Or, maybe, he was just disappointed.

“Sit down,” Emma said for, at least, the twenty-second time that night, hours removed from a post-game celebratory dinner and a wide-eyed look at Chris’ baseball-sized ankle. “Seriously. You’re making me nervous.”  
  
“I’m making you nervous?” She sighed, rolling her eyes towards the ceiling in the hotel room and Killian stopped mid-pace. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, running his hand through his hair and smiling lopsidedly at her when she twisted one of her fingers through his belt loops.

“For?”  
  
“Not noticing. Before it happened. As soon as it happened. In the last twenty-four hours.” He took a shaky breath, his whole body shuddering slightly with the force of it and he flinched when Emma rested her palm on his stomach. “I thought he was ok.”  
  
“He is.”  
  
“He’s obviously not, Swan.”  
  
“He is,” Emma repeated seriously and Killian sighed again, hair falling across his forehead when he leaned forward. “C’mon sit down.”

He did that time – crawling across the bed and tugging her against his chest. She didn’t move her hand away from his belt loops. “If I say something totally sappy will that ruin the moment?” Emma asked.

“I don’t think there’s a moment to be ruining, love.”  
  
“Yeah, see, but then your throw out nicknames like that…”  
  
“Old habits.”  
  
“That’s kind of my point, actually,” Emma muttered and Killian quirked an eyebrow in confusion. “You didn’t do anything and...I’m just saying...that, uh, well, whatever, I gave all the good speeches to Chris before. I love you.”  
  
His eyes flashed back up towards her, pulling her even closer and kissing her – soundly. “I love you too, Swan,” he mumbled and it felt like he was trying to breathe her in or something equally absurd and even more romantic. “Although that was totally sappy.”  
  
“That what the warning was for.”  
  
“Oh, well, consider me appropriately warned.”  
  
“Gina’s going to make him some kind of numbers guy.”  
  
“Fine print. Being an agent is, I’m told, all about the fine print.”  
  
“That actually makes sense.” Killian laughed softly, but there was still a note of frustration in the sound and Emma’s stomach lurched at it. “Hey,” she whispered. “This isn’t your fault. And Liam said he’d call that guy.”  
  
“The fact that Liam somehow still knows people at the University of Minnesota training facility who can do x-rays on the fly,  isn’t doing much to assuage my guilt, Swan.”  
  
“That’s because you don’t have anything to be guilty about.”  
  
“I should have known. I was standing right there. I...I watched him fall.”  
  
“And he told you he was fine.”  
  
“I shouldn’t have listened to him.”  
  
“That kind of throws a wrench into our whole parenting scheme, doesn’t it?”

The force of his exhale actually moved her hair and Emma shook her head slightly to try and get the strands away from her eyes. “Yeah,” Killian admitted. “It does. I might kill that rookie.”  
  
“Don’t kill the rookies, Cap. That does damage to your legacy.”  
  
“Fuck the legacy, I’m worried about our kid.”  
  
“How many times do I have to promise he’s fine before you believe me?”  
  
Killian squeezed his his closed, but his lips ticked up when Emma kissed his cheek. “However many we’re at is fine, love.”  
  
“So, like, eighty-seven.”  
  
“At least.”  
  
Emma laughed, pushing her feet against Killian’s legs and appreciating his sharp intake of breath at how absolutely freezing they were. “I told you it was cold here,” she muttered.

“It’s Minnesota, Swan.”  
  
“The tundra.”  
  
“The perfect place for dramatic conversations and victories.”  
  
“That sentence alone was pretty dramatic.”

They didn’t say anything for a few moments, just listened to the low hum of the television in the background and Emma tried to will her feet to get just a bit warmer and for half a moment she was almost convinced Killian fell asleep.

Until he said something else, voice barely loud enough to hear.  
  
“He’s really ok?” Killian asked and Emma bit her lip tightly so she wouldn’t just dissolve into a questionably large puddle of tears in the middle of their hotel bed.

“Yeah,” she promised. “He’s really ok.”  
  
And he was.

Liam was as good as his word the next day – rising to the occasion of his middle-name namesake – bringing Chris to the other side of the Mississippi River for an x-ray and a doctor’s appointment and a brand-new set of crutches that helped ease some of the stress he’d been putting on his ankle for the better part of the last three weeks.

Killian called Ariel and set up some kind of physical therapy schedule that made Chris groan until he saw the look on his father’s face and, well, that was really all there was to it.

“We’re not doing this again, ok?” Killian said, walking into Xcel two days later and it wasn’t the question it sounded like. It was some sort of parental decree. “You understand that?”  
  
Chris nodded. He’d taken the Rangers sweatshirt off. “Yeah, yeah, I just didn’t want…”  
  
“You couldn’t, kid. Even if you tried.”

“Ok.”  
  
“Ok.”  
  
Emma felt an elbow in her side and knew there was another bottle of vodka in Ruby’s hands. “I don’t need it,” she muttered.

“No?” Ruby asked.  
  
“Nope,” Emma promised.

“Super parents strike again?”  
  
“Ah, something like that. Insert cliché about the hockey village here, or whatever.”

“That’s painfully adorable. Your whole life is painfully adorable. Whatever, I owe Mary Margaret five bucks.”  
  
Emma made a noise in the back of her throat, pressing up on her toes to find Mary Margaret leaning against the glass window of the suite, Leo on one side and Ruth on the other and the whole room was packed with their friends and their family and BU jerseys and screaming kids and it was...perfect.

Even with the crutches and a high-ankle sprain diagnosis.

“I thought Cap would actually call that rookie and kill him so, you know, five bucks,” Ruby continued, eyeing Emma with amusement.

“You thought he’d, what, kill him over the phone?”

“I honestly wouldn’t have put it past him when Chris was involved.”  
  
“Yeah, me either,” Emma admitted and maybe she _did_ need the vodka.

“Chris know that?”  
  
“I think so. Now, at least.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
They drank the vodka when the final buzzer went off, cut, slightly, by another bottle of overpriced vending-machine cranberry juice and Emma would argue that she _absolutely, positively, was not_ crying when Matt scored the game-winner in the national championship game in goddamn Minnesota.

Chris managed to keep his balance on the ice when they were brought down, Matt’s eyes going wide as soon as he saw his brother and the crutches and he might have mumbled _what the fuck, C_ under his breath before adding a quick _sorry_ when he saw the look on Emma and Killian’s faces.

“I’m fine,” Chris said quickly, but he rested his hand on Matt’s shoulder anyway. “Hey, Matt, did you know you could get a good signing bonus if you go in the top five?”  
  
“Uh, yeah, I did,” Matt muttered. “Why did you know that?”  
  
“Aunt Gina and I have been talking.”  
  
Matt laughed loudly, head thrown back and hair sticking to his forehead, pulling Chris across the ice as he tried to hug him. It didn’t really work though – he was far too sweaty and both Emma and Killian made some sort of strangled noise when Chris dropped both of his crutches.

“God, guys, be careful,” Emma sighed, but Matt was already being called back towards the team and a post-game ceremony and cutting apart a net.

Matt smiled at her, flicking one gloveless hand at Chris’ shoulder. “Give me some more updates when I get back, ok, kid?”  
  
He did.

And kept giving updates and kept listening to Regina and he never went back on the ice, but he never walked away from it completely.

And, years later, when Matt resigned with the Rangers – some absurd deal that made the backpages of every tabloid and the lead story on ESPN, like hockey was something worth talking about, Chris’ work was in every single letter and every single number. It was, as the headlines read, _unprecedented,_ hiring an agent that young and there were mutterings about _family_ and _favorites_ and Emma was just a bit terrified of what would happen if it didn’t work, but it did – in spades.

Matt signed and Chris grinned like some kind of sports agent Cheshire Cat for the next six months, sliding his card towards every single rookie or soon-to-be free agent in the Rangers organization.

Emma kept the card on her desk, tucked into the side of a frame – a picture of all five of them at center ice in the Xcel. Killian kept his card in his wallet.

And Chris never got his own headlines, didn’t pack a stat line or even win a Gold medal, but he never worried about being _enough_ after that day and Emma smiled when Killian promised _he’s fine, Swan_ as soon as Chris fine-tuned his own deal-making stare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I was just like...all fluff all the time? I am, apparently, now all angst all the time. And injuries. So, I guess that's my new trend because I've written a considerable amount of very injury-prone Blue Line sequel fic in the last week. 
> 
> I'm thiiiiiinking about a Blue Line posting break to post the EVEN ANGSTIER video game fic that has literally been sitting in my Docs for nearly a year. Like maybe starting that in the first week of July? Eh? Eh? Ehhhh?
> 
> Come flail on Tumblr and yell thoughts at me if your'e down: http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/


	13. For a Good Cause, Part One

“Sit.”  
  
“I can’t. Everyone is late.”  
  
“Wandering around this arena is not going to help.”  
  
“I don’t care.”  
  
“Swan.”  
  
“Killian.”  
  
Emma spun on the spot, pulled out of her pace mid-pace by several fingers around her wrist and the overwhelmingly effective smirk on Killian’s face and it wasn’t, technically, in the arena. He didn’t mention that. He probably knew it’d stress her out.

And that wasn’t even really the right word for it.

She wasn’t stressed out. She’d barely planned anything, was so used to doing events like these now she could probably come up with the schedule in her sleep and Merida had done most of it anyway. Emma had just agreed to do some Garden of Dreams promo and make sure the banners got to Chase Square on time and call someone in facilities about getting actual podiums set up.

That had been the most difficult part.

Stressed wasn’t the right word.

And it wasn’t worried either. She’d watched Killian play hockey for the better part of the last three decades and watched Roland play and Matt play and every single person that was, eventually, going to show up and stand by those absolutely absurd podiums was incredibly good at what they did.

They got paid millions for it.

Emma wasn’t really sure what emotion she was – unless it was generically annoyed because everyone was _seriously_ late and Merida looked like she wanted to throw her phone at the will-call window behind her – but it might have just been some strange mix of nervous and excited and, well, mostly, nervous because she’d watched them all play hockey, but she’d never watched them play hockey together.

And she wasn’t sure she could handle her husband and her kid playing on the same ice at the same time.

“Swan, I can’t actually tug you down, it’s going to hurt my arm,” Killian muttered, and they both knew it was a great, big, _enormous_ lie because he was probably in as good a shape as he’d been when he was playing. Maybe better. Well, no, maybe not that, but he still ran through Riverside three times a week and Emma was having more and more trouble thinking when she kept noticing new flecks of silver in his hair and--

“You’re trying to distract me,” she accused.

He nodded. “Yes, I am. Is it working?”  
  
“Not really, everyone is late.”  
  
“Or we’re just impossibly early.”  
  
“Is that really the word you were looking for?” Emma asked, hating whatever her voice was doing because his thumb had started tapping against the back of her wrist and she was ninety-two percent positive he didn’t mean to do it.

She didn’t think he even realized.

“I’m not really worried about the specifics of my sentence structure,” Killian said. “This is going to be fine.”  
  
“Of course it is.”  
  
He blinked. And his lips twisted, eyebrows pulled low when his eyes flashed up towards hers and Emma tried to make sure her smile looked as confident as she felt. That was one of the emotions she was feeling, she was certain.

She _was_ confident. It was a great idea and it was going to be great and Garden of Dreams was going to make a _shit ton_ of money for an anniversary _thing_ that definitely deserved a charity hockey game with Rangers legends and some of the biggest names in the league today.

That’s what the e-mail blast had said.

Emma wrote it herself.

The whole thing had been her idea. She was pretty positive that was the only reason she wasn't freaking out. And she was having a lot of thoughts about Killian in uniform again. That were probably not appropriate for a game that also included her kid and her friends and Roland Locksley.

“Wait, what?” Killian asked, and Emma’s smile widened.

“Yeah, didn’t expect that at all, did you?”  
  
“I have no idea what the hell is going on now, love. Can you honestly sit down though, you’re going to do damage to the ground.”  
  
“The stone ground?”  
  
“Yes. Sit, Swan.”  
  
She rolled her eyes, but let him pull her towards him and she probably should have expected it – there was, after all, several decades worth of experience to all of this, but Emma wasn’t entirely sure if they’d ever made out in Chase Square and she gasped when Killian tugged her onto his legs. “That can’t be safe, pre-game,” she mumbled, appreciating whatever sound he made when she tried to get more comfortable.

“You’re going to make me think you don’t think I’m game ready.”  
  
“You were the one going on about the state of your arm,” Emma challenged. She twisted again, slinging an arm around his shoulders so her fingers could find the back of his hair and they really were there impossibly early.

“Ah, but we agreed that was a distraction. And this conversation makes no sense.”  
  
“Slow on the uptake, Cap.”  
  
He arched an eyebrow, letting his head fall forward so his lips landed on the curve of her shoulder and Emma’s emotions settled into something that felt a hell of a lot like flirting. Merida was going to throw her phone at them.

“I’m still waiting on that explanation, love,” Killian muttered. “The game’s going to be fun. We raise some money, we score some goals, we impress loved ones.”  
  
“Loved ones?”  
  
“I am consistently and only ever trying to impress you. Who I love. Quite a bit in fact.”  
  
“Is this still part of the distraction?”

He made a contradictory noise, mouth still pressed against her skin and there hadn’t been much argument about naming him captain of one of the teams. Emma wasn’t entirely sure he’d ever really stopped being captain of the New York Rangers. Or would. Any tense, really.

There’d been some discussion about the _other_ team and it took, exactly, ten minutes for Robin to sigh dramatically and agree to Merida’s request – possibly because Regina had turned towards him and her eyebrows didn’t move at all when she glared. It was incredibly intimidating.

“It’ll be good for TV,” Merida promised. “Plus don’t you want to brag to Cap when you come up with a different team?”  
  
“Wait, what?” Robin balked.

“I mean...you’re going to have to stage a draft.”  
  
A draft. For a charity game. On Garden ice. In the offseason. With all proceeds going to a very good cause and an absurd amount of signed merch that was piled in Emma’s office and had recently migrated a bit to Matt’s old room because there was _so much_ and Chris had only argued a little bit about helping.

He was thirteen he argued about everything.

There’d been more talking after Merida’s announcement, more planning and way too much trash talk amongst a group of former and current athletes than Emma entirely expected, but they were all way too competitive and it was only a matter of time before someone made a bet about something.

Or several things.

There’d probably be multiple bets.

“Swan,” Killian said, drawing out her name and pulling her out of memories and she startled against his chest. It was enough to work another groan out of him. “Look who’s being incredibly distracting now.”  
  
“You’re going to scandalize Mer.”  
  
“She’s way too busy trying to figure out who hit what traffic and how much she’s got to placate this growing crowd.”  
  
He waved his free hand, the one not currently wrapped around her middle, through the air and it was a testament to Emma’s current mental state that she hadn’t noticed the crowd or the media or the, frankly, ridiculous number of twenty jerseys around them.

She was still sitting on Killian’s right thigh.

“You think we scandalized all of them by whatever it was you were doing to my shoulder?” she asked, and she expected his answering laugh.

“Oh, absolutely. That was part of the distraction technique too.”  
  
“This is a very involved plan.”  
  
“Yeah, well, you were going to do damage to the ground by pacing right through it,” Killian countered. “So it seems to keep getting more and more complex with each passing moment. Also I know you’re worried they’re all going to be weird about this.”  
  
“Weird?”  
  
“Weird. Strange. Overly competitive. Absolutely refuse to draft Scarlet until the very final pick.”  
  
Emma’s jaw cracked when it dropped, fingers still where they’d been tracing patterns on the back of Killian’s neck and she swore his hand tightened around her middle. “Have you been staging secret draft meetings without me, Cap?”

He shook his head, but that felt like a lie too and the smirk was honestly absurd. It shouldn’t get more powerful as the years went on.

Merida had started yelling in the phone. Emma wasn’t entirely sure it was all English.

“No, no, no, no,” Killian stammered, and Emma had to move her eyebrows when she glared. She was never as good as Regina.

“You want to try that again?”  
  
“They’re not meetings, really…”  
  
“No, they’re, like, battle plans,” Roland said, appearing in front of them with a smile on his face and head-to-toe Flyers gear. Killian groaned against Emma’s shoulder. “Why are you guys sitting on the ground? Don’t we have chairs at this shindig?”  
  
“Please don’t call it a shindig in front of Mer,” Emma implored. “She’s stressed enough as it is. And where did you come from?”  
  
“And what are you wearing?” Killian added.

Roland crossed his arms. “I play for this team, Hook. It’s not like I’m going to show up in blue merch for this. I don’t care what ice I’m skating on.”  
  
“You practice that?”  
  
“Several times in the cab cross-town.”  
  
“Gina know you took a cab?”

The orange appeared to get stronger or brighter or some other verb that wasn’t possible because it was a shirt and not a sentient being, the longer Roland stood there. His eyes widened and his lips pressed together, and Killian practically cackled into Emma’s arm.

“If you tell Gina that I took a cab from the apartment, she’s never going to let me back into the apartment,” Roland hissed.

“Why didn’t you come with them?”  
  
“They were having breakfast with Henry and his kids. Because Henry is staying in a hotel and--”  
  
“--Didn’t get guilt tripped by Gina to sleep on the couch when he was home for the weekend,” Emma added, and she wasn’t sure if that was another laugh out of Killian or if he’d just never really stopped, but Roland’s face was almost too red now. “Go stand next to Mer, Rol,” she continued. “I’d like to compare shades of red.”

He stuck his tongue out at her.

“You’re a picture of maturity,” Killian chuckled. “Thirty-year-old man guilt tripped by his mother and then embarrassed by it.”  
  
“Ok, I’m not embarrassed by it,” Roland argued. “I just didn’t know it was going to be some kind of point of contention or fodder for trash talk or--”  
  
“--Are we trash talking you?” Emma asked, the sound of footsteps moving towards them and it sounded like Merida had finally taken a deep breath. She probably should have helped some more. She was way too busy flirting with Killian.

“Well, yeah. Right, that’s what’s happening? Isn’t it? Also where is everyone?”

“That’s a very good question. We think that’s what Mer is yelling about.”  
  
“Trash talking the trash talkers, huh?”  
  
Emma shrugged. “I’m fairly positive she’s upset no one is taking this as seriously as they’re supposed to.”  
  
“That’s not true at all. Dad and Uncle Will and Hook had some kind of meeting about how they were going to draft. Uncle Will was super pissed they wanted to draft him last and Uncle Liam laughed so loudly the rumors were it was going to do damage to Hook’s phone.”  
  
“How do you know that?”

It could not have been safe for Roland’s skin to keep shifting between pale and flushed so quickly. Emma tried not to laugh. Killian absolutely did not.

“Ok, you can’t be annoyed by this,” Roland said, holding both his hands up and Emma widened her eyes. She figured Killian moved his eyebrows – based solely off the blush-type reaction in Roland’s cheeks. “I’m pretty positive Uncle Will told Mattie because he thinks Hook is going to draft Mattie first, which, you know, obviously.”  
  
“And that means what, exactly?” Emma asked, only slightly frustrated she hadn’t been involved in any of these pre-draft meetings.

She should not have been surprised that there were pre-draft meetings.

They were all way too competitive for their own good.

Roland sighed, stuffing his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels. It sounded like Merida was growling on the other side of Chase Square. “I’m, like, sixty-seven percent positive Uncle Will thought he could get Mattie to persuade Hook to break the pre-draft agreement and then he wouldn’t be angry about getting drafted last or whatever, but I don’t think Mattie went for it. I’m like ninety-two percent positive about that.”  
  
“These percentages are absurd.”  
  
“Math’s not his strong suit,” Killian grinned.

Roland kicked at his ankle. “If that’s your form of trash talk you are crazy out of practice, Hook. And I only know because I talked to Mattie yesterday because--”  
  
“--You were trash talking?”  
  
“I mean if I lie are you actually going to ground me?”  
  
“As previously discussed, mate, you are a professional athlete. Who is thirty years old. I don’t think I’ve got that kind of clout anymore.”  
  
“Thirty-one. Technically.”  
  
“Math’s not his strong suit either,” Emma laughed, leaning back when Killian hooked his chin over her shoulder and there must have been hair in his face. He didn’t seem to mind.

Whoever groaned behind them, however, very clearly minded quite a bit.

And was holding two different signs.

“Aw, c’mon, seriously?” Peggy sighed, flanked by a clearly amused Anna and a slightly disgusted Liam. Elsa didn’t look surprised. Lizzie’s eyes darted towards Roland’s immediately. She was wearing orange too.

“Right?” Roland laughed. He took a step forward, cheeks still far too flushed to be healthy and curls that were far too long because it was the offseason and hockey players were notoriously lazy when there weren’t games to be played.

At least the ones Emma knew.

Her fingers moved back to Killian’s hair.

“You guys know there are chairs here, right?” Peggy asked. Someone laughed. It might have been Elsa. It was definitely Elsa. “Where’s Uncle Robin? Does Dad win by default if Uncle Robin forfeits the draft?”  
  
“No one is forfeiting anything,” Emma said evenly, tugging on the hem of Peggy’s shirt when she moved in front of them. It was appropriately team-branded. There wasn’t a C on her shoulder. Elsa was still laughing. “I think that’d actually make Merida start to cry.”  
  
“Does Mer know how to cry?”  
  
“I’d really rather not find out.”  
  
Peggy hummed in agreement, sinking onto the ground without ceremony and letting her elbows rest on her bent knees. “Yeah, that’s fair. She know there’s some crazy accident on the FDR? That’s why we were late.”

“Locksley doesn’t have that excuse,” Killian reasoned. “They’d probably be coming up 10th Avenue anyway.”  
  
“You some kind of traffic soothsayer now, KJ?” Elsa asked, Liam’s arm still around her when she moved and Killian was going to do permanent damage to his eyebrows. “How come you aren’t letting Emma sit in a chair?”  
  
“He’s worried about the draft,” Liam answered. Killian flipped him off.

“Hey, c’mon, your kid is sitting right there!”  
  
“I’m almost twenty, Uncle Liam,” Peggy said, and Emma wasn’t sure what her soul did at that, but she was glad she was perched on Killian’s right leg when it happened. His arm tightened again. “I don’t think that makes me a kid. And Dad’s not worried about the draft.”  
  
Sprained eyebrows. Honestly. Emma wondered where Ariel was. Probably stuck in some other part of Midtown. Or the Long Island Expressway.

“Is he not?” Liam asked, and they were all going to be sitting on the ground sooner rather than later.

Peggy shook her head. “Obviously not. You hear about that trash talk he was giving Uncle Robin after he made that mistake on TV?” She let out a low whistle, eyes bright and only a little disconcerting and all of their kids were far too charming for their own good. They knew it too. “Could barely talk about the game without laughing in the middle of his segment. Nah, Dad’s crazy confident in his team already.”  
  
“Maybe you’re the soothsayer, little love," Killian said, smile obvious in his voice and Emma groaned when he leaned both of them forward to read the signs in Peggy’s hands. “When’d you make these? And when did you see the segment?”  
  
“On the plane. I think the lady next to me thought I was legitimately crazy. You know how expensive markers are in the Eugene airport? Highway robbery, honestly.”  
  
“Wouldn’t it be, like, sky robbery?” Lizzie asked, and Peggy rolled her eyes. “You make everybody signs or just people you’re related to and making out with?”  
  
Peggy appeared to be trying to melt into the stone ground. Merida stopped talking for half a second. Emma was, at least, ninety-seven and a half percent positive it was because of the look on Killian’s face.

“Thanks a lot, Elizabeth,” Peggy grumbled, and Lizzie didn’t answer, just leaned further against Roland’s side. Peggy didn’t notice. She was far too busy staring at her hands. They were still holding signs. “Ok,” she mumbled. “It’s not really like that…”  
  
“What is it like then?” Killian asked. Anna laughed that time.

“Jeez, KJ. That was way too hardcore for whatever it is we’re doing. Where’s your other kids?”  
  
“Chris is with Mattie,” Emma explained. She wasn’t entirely sure if Killian could actually answer. Or formulate any thoughts that were not about getting immediate and concrete answers out of Peggy. She bit her lip.

“It’s really not like that,” she said again, glancing up under her lashes and Killian’s whole body sagged against Emma’s. Liam mumbled something that sounded a hell of a lot like _overprotective idiot_ under his breath.

“You do not have a leg to stand on this situation, Liam,” Killian warned. “See if I draft you later.”  
  
“Please, I don’t want to play for your garbage team.”  
  
“Oh don’t do that,” Anna groaned. “You want to be on KJ’s team, Liam.”  
  
“How you figure?”  
  
Anna muttered a string of curses, most of them in a language that was neither English nor Norwegian, and something cracked loudly when she leaned back against Peggy’s side. “Ignore that,” she said, a command to the whole lot of them and there was another car door slamming from Seventh Avenue. “Also, you’ve got to be on KJ’s team because otherwise you’re going to have to face off against Matt and that’s going to literally be the single most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you.”  
  
“And one time he fell off those rocks in Central Park and nearly sprained his wrist and had to come up with a lie to Mom and Dad about why he couldn’t move his hand without wincing,” Elsa added conspiratorially. Liam gaped at her. “Who’s the guy, Pegs?”  
  
Peggy gritted her teeth, glaring daggers at Lizzie. “I didn’t realize it was a secret.”  
  
“It’s not an anything,” Peggy shouted.  
  
“Margaret,” Killian muttered, and her whole body sagged forward when she exhaled dramatically.

“Who do we not know that’s playing in this game?” Emma asked. She tried to glance up through her skull when a hand landed on her shoulder and David grinned down at her.

“Your eyes are going to get stuck that way,” he said, Ruth plastered to his side and Mary Margaret was absolutely holding some form of baked good. “You know there’s a ton of traffic on the West Side, who decided to do this in the middle of the afternoon on Saturday?”  
  
“Ruby?”  
  
“God, remind me to yell at her about that, where is she?”  
  
“I have no idea,” Emma answered at the same time Peggy said “in her office, yelling at someone about the banners that very clearly aren’t here.”  
  
“How do you know that?”  
  
Peggy made a noise in the back of her throat. “She wanted to know where we were and if I was with you. And also where MD and Toph were.”  
  
“Are they not here yet?” Mary Margaret asked, already holding the Tupperware container out expectantly when Roland all but lunged at it. “And where’s the rest of the draft stock? Shouldn’t Robin be here? And Humbert?”  
  
Peggy froze. Liam chuckled.

  
“I’m not going to draft you solely so I can check you later, Liam,” Killian hissed, but his eyes didn’t move away from Peggy.

Emma reached out slowly, tapping her thumb on her lower lip in an effort to make sure she didn’t bite through it. “We don’t have time to get stitches, babe,” she mumbled. “And your brother will be mad if we steal his spotlight.”  
  
“Please,” Peggy countered. “The only brother’s who’s going to be mad about anything is Toph. Literally no one in the world has ever been more excited to see Dad play hockey.”  
  
Those emotions Emma was fifty percent certain she’d managed to corral a few minutes before reappeared in full force and the thought had crossed her mind more than anything else, the first and only time Chris would ever see his dad play on Garden ice and it made her heart do something and her pulse do something else and she wanted to scream and shout and jump up and down and one charity game should not be causing her so much personal turmoil.

She might make her own signs.

“Aw, we can’t even trash talk that,” Will said, and Emma wished they’d all stop teleporting to Chase Square. Peggy jumped up, concern over _maybe_ boyfriends and guys who weren’t playing hockey, but had also grown up around hockey, forgotten as soon as Will moved towards them and he grunted when she threw the full force of her weight into his chest. “God, I’m not a hurdle, Margaret,” he mumbled, but there was a note of _something_  in his voice and Peggy looked like she held on tighter. “You don’t have to try and jump over me.”  
  
“Shut up, Uncle Will.”  
  
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”  
  
She burrowed her face into the crook of his neck, and David was only slightly vocal about _not getting a reception like that_. Will grinned at him over Peggy’s shoulder. “Why are you guys all sitting on the ground? Where’s Locksley?”  
  
“Stuck in traffic with Matt and Chris and Graham Humbert’s kid apparently,” Killian said, catching Emma around the wrist before she could swat at his shoulder. Will’s eyes widened.

“Dad,” Peggy whined. “It’s not like that. It’s...the only people who got signs were you and MD.”  
  
“Wait, wait, Scarlet and I didn’t get a sign?” Liam asked.

“Liam, I’m seriously going to check you tomorrow,” Killian said. Will’s eyes still had not returned to a size that was correct for a human being.

“And I don’t think Graham’s kid is in the same car as Chris and Mattie,” Emma reasoned. It wasn’t easy to stand up, particularly when Killian’s arm seemed intent on melding _into_ her body, but she managed to shift back to her feet and Peggy scrunched her nose when she pried her away from Will’s chest.

Her hair brushed Emma’s mouth.

“You’re no help at all either,” Peggy grumbled. “And it’s really not like that at all. Jer and I are friends. Lizzie’s just a giant jerk and--”

“--Mattie was the one who told me he thought he had to talk to this guy in person this weekend,” Lizzie interrupted.

“What?”

Lizzie held both her hands up, a rare surrender from anyone with the last name Vankald or Jones. There were more footsteps coming towards them. And heels. It appeared Ruby had descended from her office. “If you tell him that I told you that Margaret Elsa, I will push you in traffic,” Lizzie hissed, Roland clicking his tongue and Will mumbling _oh shit_ in between laughing.

“Why is MD talking to you about this?”  
  
“Probably for the same reason we always talk about this. And because he was really mad we accidentally liked that one girls Instagram photo.”  
  
There was a chorus of _what_ from the ever-growing peanut gallery and Chris slammed into Killian’s side, barely managing to get up before a thirteen-year-old inadvertently concussed himself on his ribs. “Slow down, kid,” Killian mumbled out of habit, and it didn’t work. It never worked. None of the Jones Line ever learned to control their limbs.

“Dad, seriously, I need you to stop making that face,” Peggy continued, seemingly unperturbed by the arrival of her younger brother when she was so clearly planning the murder of her older brother. “I can make a sign that says Jer and I are just friends if that’d help.”  
  
“I mean, it might,” Killian admitted. He flashed her a smile and his eyebrows twisted, tongue pressed into the corner of his mouth in a way that was supposed to be charming, but just left Peggy groaning against Emma’s side with more hair everywhere.

“And,” she added. “That Instagram thing happened literally years ago. MD was like--”  
  
“--A sophomore in college,” Matt finished, stepping towards them with Robin and the rest of the Mills-Locksley family close behind and both Emma and Will chuckled when Roland practically jumped to attention.

“Saw that,” she mumbled. He made a face.

“I was a sophomore in college, Margaret,” Matt intoned, hardly flinching when Peggy kicked and punched at him and Emma was going to end up bruised and battered by the end of this inevitable argument. “And that girl thought I was nuts after.”  
  
“Should have explained it better,” Peggy said. “And, you know, look at you now. I bet she’s really regretting that decision.”  
  
“She wouldn’t have had to if you and Lizzie were normal people!”  
  
“Ok, well, that’s just kind of rude, MD.”  
  
“Super rude,” Lizzie agreed, digging her chin into Peggy’s shoulder when she took a step closer. “Plus, who freaks out about that? A normal person would have thought you were just interested in--”  
  
“--Stalking her,” Chris finished. Matt lunged at him, more laughter ringing in the air and both Killian and Emma sighed, but that was as much reprimand as they were going to get out because they were incredibly behind schedule and their kids were some of the best trash talkers in the Tri-State area.

“We were stalking here a little,” Lizzie admitted, the smile on Chris’ face growing with every passing minute. “You late because you were stuck in traffic or because you were watching film?”  
  
Chris stopped laughing. And Matt froze, a picture-perfect impersonation of Killian being caught mid-lie that was absolutely, positively not on purpose. Emma’s emotions could not handle that day. Peggy nearly fell over when she cackled.

“Oh God,” she mumbled, shaking her hair away from her face. “You don’t get to say anything to me for the rest of the weekend, MD. I can’t believe you almost messed up Mom’s event because you were showing off for Toph. That one goal against the Pens was not that impressive, I promise.”

Matt blinked. And it took Emma, approximately, three seconds and one emotion-fueled gasp for everything to click.

Because no one had ever been more excited for Killian Jones to make his return to Garden ice than Christopher Jones – even through all that thirteen-year-old teenage angst.

“Wasn’t me,” Matt muttered. “And that goal was insanely impressive and you know it.”  
  
“You flatter yourself.”  
  
“Wait until tomorrow. You’re going to be stunned.”  
  
“That so?”  
  
“Guaranteed.”  
  
“Care to place a wager on that?”

Matt’s smile was as wide as the entire goddamn island of Manhattan, eyes flashing and hair falling towards his eyes and Roland was already demanding to _get in on that action too_ , Lizzie rummaging in her bag for a notebook to make sure the rules were properly documented.

Emma moved, fingers lacing with Killian’s on instinct and several other things that would make everyone in a twenty-foot radius groan and gag and Chris had three cookies in one hand. “Slow down kid,” she said. “Didn’t your brother feed you?”  
  
Chris nodded, bobbing on the balls of his feet. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, but then we were watching the film from the first Cup run and he was letting me practice that shot Rook took--”

“--In his apartment?”  
  
“Matt doesn’t care about his security deposit. You see his rookie signing bonus?”  
  
Emma scoffed, but she couldn’t argue and Chris probably knew more about the contract than Matt did. At least as much as Regina did. “And?” she prompted.

“And that was a really good goal at the end of the game, Dad.”  
  
Killian’s hand squeezed Emma’s. “Thanks,” he grinned, wrapping another arm around Chris’ middle and pulling him back to his side and there was the teenage angst, right on schedule in disgruntled noise form. “Nah, nah, you don’t get to compliment me and then try and get out of being properly parented in public.”  
  
“That sentence doesn’t even make any sense.”  
  
“You want to get on the ice later?”  
  
“I mean...obviously, but only so I can figure out how you got enough speed on that breakaway.”  
  
“Don’t expect too much out of him, Toph,” Robin said, a kid clinging to his side who did not appear to appreciate the amount of noise the Jones Line was making. “He was running on adrenaline and the end of the game and trying to impress your Mom.”  
  
“Gross,” Matt and Peggy yelled in tandem.

“True though,” Will promised. “Almost always for like eons.”  
  
“It has not been that long, Scarlet,” Killian objected.

“Hasn’t it? Time flies and keeps on slipping and all that. I got a question for you, Cap.” Killian hummed, caution in the sound and Chris’ eyes darted between the two of them like he was watching a passing exercise. “Who’s going to wear twenty in this game?” Will asked, and it was like someone had pressed pause or pulled all the oxygen out of the entire planet and Emma was not entirely prepared for Ruby to curse as loudly as she did.

“Aw, shit,” she growled, stomping her foot for emphasis. “I didn’t even think about that.”  
  
“And you don’t have to,” Killian promised. HIs hand was still a vice around Emma’s though, and Chris appeared to have turned into some kind of stone, the number on his back growing larger with every passing second. Or at least it felt that way.

“Hey, what?” Matt asked sharply. “That’s my number.”  
  
Killian shook his head. “That’s my number.”

“Are you kidding me?”  
  
“Are you?”  
  
“I’m not giving up my number,” Matt said evenly, and Emma wasn’t sure who laughed loudest or longest, but she had to resist the urge to glance at the ceiling because her kid never really tried to sound like Killian, but it usually happened that way more often than not.

Killian didn’t move, didn’t pull his hand away from Emma, but she swore he got _taller_ or more intimidating and Matt’s shoulders slumped slightly. “If I’m going to play in this game, then I’m going to wear my number,” Killian said.

“Captain voice,” Chris mumbled, Matt rolling his whole head in frustration.

“See if I feed you again later, C,” he groaned. “Dad, is this a joke? It’s my number. Currently. I’m going to wear it in a couple of weeks when camp starts.”  
  
“Because he’s a professional hockey player now, Hook, you see,” Roland grinned, gaze darting towards Peggy when she couldn’t keep her laugh in her body.

“I’m well aware of what he is, mate. I’m just not entirely understanding why that’s got any bearing on what number he wears for this game.”  
  
“I’ve never worn anything except twenty,” Matt cried. “This is insane.”  
  
“Nah, I think that’s just you and Dad, MD,” Peggy said. “Also you’re both ridiculously superstitious. That might be the most insane part.”  
  
“That’s definitely the most insane part,” Lizzie agreed.

“Ah, that was nice backup. Sorry for you calling you Elizabeth before, it felt weird when I was saying it. I’d like to never do it again.”  
  
“I’d like to never hear it again.”  
  
“Done.” Peggy shrugged. “Maybe Uncle Liam can just check MD tomorrow instead. It was his fault anyway.”  
  
“Consider it done, Pegs,” Liam grinned, Elsa only groaning slightly at the guarantee. It didn’t matter. Emma groaned loudly enough for the both of them.

“You guys can’t check each other,” she said. “It’s a charity game. We’ve had this conversation, I know we have. I was there.”  
  
“We don’t know how to play any other way,” Will argued. Ruby was never going to stop cursing. That was probably what the stories would be about. “And I really, really want to check Cap.”  
  
“I’m not drafting you, Scarlet, I don’t know how you’re going to check Cap,” Robin said.

Will checked him. Without a stick.

“Scarlet, if you do that again, I will never let you back on Garden ice,” Ruby threatened.

“Can you actually do that?”  
  
“You want to challenge it?”  
  
“I mean, not particularly.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Ruby grinned, but that felt a little threatening too and Merida had finally hung up her phone.

“Are we all here?” she asked. Her hair was in even more disarray than Peggy’s. “Where’s Rook? And Humbert? Why did we invite Humbert?”  
  
Several pairs of eyes flashed towards Peggy, color rising in her cheeks and the toe of her shoe digging into the ground. “All of you guys are the worst,” she mumbled. “Can we focus on MD and Dad being crazy people instead? That’s way more fun.”  
  
“It is a little crazy, KJ,” Elsa said. “This is your kid. Wearing your number.”  
  
Killian narrowed his eyes. “A beacon of support, El. I can’t play on Garden ice if I’m not wearing my number. Peg’s right, it’s way too many superstitions.”  
  
“That’s ridiculous.”  
  
“You want to be responsible for the broken bones I’ll inevitably endure when Scarlet checks me?”  
  
Emma wasn’t sure what noise she made – a groan and gasp and possibly some kind of inhuman growl, but her head collided almost painfully with Killian’s shoulder and the twenty on her back was his twenty and they were arguing over possession of numbers.

“Wait, what?” Merida asked sharply. She looked like she was considering using the clipboard in her hand as a weapon.

“Nothing, nothing, Mer,” Robin promised. Killian’s eyes, somehow, got more narrow. “We’re super behind schedule, right? You look like you want to kill us.”  
  
“I don’t want to kill you. I want to know where Rook and Humbert are.”  
  
“Hey, hey, hey,” Phillip yelled, one hand in the air and Emma could just make out Canucks colors and Will was going to check Graham before he checked Killian. Before the game started. “We’re here, we’re here, Mer, please don’t curse us or anything. Did you guys start? Humbert was worried Cap was going to start without him so he didn’t have to draft him.”  
  
“Ok, I never said I’d do that,” Killian muttered, but that didn't ring quite true either and Peggy was biting her lip again. And doing an absolutely horrible job of avoiding Jeremy Humbert’s very obvious gaze.

“Right, right, God, should I be this out of breath before I’ve got to wreck all of you tomorrow?”  
  
“Wow, just starting real early with the trash talk, huh, Rook?” Ruby asked.

“I wanted to make up for lost time. Plus, I’ve got nothing on the Jones Line. Hey Pegs, when’d you land?”  
  
Peggy opened her mouth to answer, but Ruby was back to _threatening_ and the media horde was starting to get restless and they really did need to draft a team. Preferably before Killian challenged Jeremy Humbert to one-on-one combat.  
  
Or Liam did. Or Will did. Or Matt did.

Peggy pushed her signs into Killian’s chest. “They both say skate fast,” she announced. “Because both you and MD are ridiculously fast and superstitious and I’m not that creative.”

Killian stared at her for a beat, those eons Will was talking about before seemingly passing by them just to prove a point or toy with Emma’s emotions. Peggy didn’t argue when he tugged her forward, brushing a kiss over the crown of her hair like she was a kid and not an even better athlete than her professional athlete brother.

“Thank you, little love,” he said. “C’mon, let’s go draft a team.”

That, however, proved to be more difficult than just standing at those absurd podiums with an absurd number of cameras pointed at them and Chris didn’t appreciate when Emma’s head fell to his shoulder. Peggy’s head was on his other side.

“I’m not actually a pillow person,” Chris hissed, while Ruby explained the rules and _one player for every pick_ and _please keep this rated PG_ and a few fans laughed at that. Robin won the coin toss to pick first. They literally flipped a coin. “God, P, stop digging your elbow into my hip.”  
  
“That is not where your hip is, Toph.”  
  
“Can you guys relax, please?” Emma asked, but it was drifting dangerously close to begging already and no one had even made a pick yet.

“Toph and MD didn’t invite me to their super cool, super hangout thing,” Peggy said. “That means I can do whatever I want with my elbows.”  
  
“I don’t think that’s entirely true, babe.”  
  
“And we didn’t know what time you were going to land,” Chris added. “So, like...move your elbow or I’m going to tell Jeremy Humbert you want to marry him.”  
  
Peggy jabbed him in the side, drawing a far too loud to be appropriate exclamation out of Chris that also led to him jumping to his feet and a shoulder slamming into Emma’s jaw. Killian’s head snapped up, both hands gripping the side of his podium with a wide-eyed gaze, like he was waiting for the inevitable broken bone or someone to find a stick somewhere and start hitting the other in the ankles.

Emma sighed.

And she almost didn’t hear it at first.

Peggy and Chris stopped arguing immediately.

“What?” Killian rasped, and Robin grinned like he’d already won the entire goddamn game.

“I said, with the first overall pick in whatever we’re calling this--”  
  
“--The summer classic, Locksley,” Ruby growled. “God, we’ve been over this.”  
  
“Right, right, yeah, that’s not very creative though.”  
  
“I’m going to revoke your captaincy, right here.”  
  
“Oh my God, Lucas, do it,” Will yelled, Liam shouting his own encouragements and Emma couldn’t actually see Matt anymore. He appeared to have slumped in his seat, Roland trying to pull him back up by the scruff of his own jersey.

“Say that again, Locksley,” Killian challenged. Robin’s expression didn’t change.  
  
“I’m drafting your kid, Cap. First overall, so, uh...congrats Matt, even better than your actual draft.”

Emma didn’t remember standing, only that she was and that was kind of a problem because her knees didn’t seem all that interested in functioning like actual parts of her body.

“It’s not like I didn’t get drafted, Uncle Robin,” Matt countered, but Robin shrugged and Ruby was trying to get him to come on stage so he could change jerseys. “Wait, wait, wait,” he sputtered. “This isn’t actually a joke?”  
  
“Please don’t call this event a joke, mini-Jones,” Ruby said.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Ru.”  
  
“Yeah, sure you didn’t. I really need you to put this jersey on and pose for a photo. Like twenty minutes ago, honestly, but your parents were probably flirting and--”  
  
“--Hey,” Killian cut in sharply, and Emma hoped Ruby hadn’t done damage to any of her teeth when she snapped her jaw closed. “Alright, with the second overall pick in whatever the hell we’re calling this ridiculous game, I draft Roland Locksley. And I’m keeping my number, Matthew.”

Robin’s mouth fell open.

“Oh my God,” Ruby mumbled, head in her hands and Merida had dropped her clipboard on the ground. “Mini-Jones, I wasn’t kidding about the photo. That goes for you too now, Rol.”  
  
Roland saluted. “Sure thing, Rubes. You see what a better choice the number two overall pick is? Ready and willing to report for duty.”  
  
“You’re a kiss-up,” Matt hissed.

“And that’s an insult you came up with when you were eight years old. It still doesn’t make any sense now, Mattie.”  
  
“Aw, c’mon.”  
  
“Mattie Jones, going to lose more than half his faceoffs tomorrow afternoon.”  
  
“You’re a winger, Locksley,” Matt challenged, and Emma pinched the bridge of her nose, her two other kids enthusiastically cheering for whatever against the rules trash talk was preventing Ruby from staying on photo schedule.

“Who’s not going to score any goals tomorrow,” Peggy yelled. “Down with the Flyers! Fly away home, Locksley!”  
  
“That was kind of funny, P,” Chris grinned.

“Right? I’ve been waiting to use that forever. Who shows up in orange in New York? You look ridiculous!”

Roland ignored both of them.  “True, I am a winger, but you’re some kind of All-Rookie centerman, so that’s free bait to mock.”  
  
“That doesn’t make sense either! Yours makes less sense than mine did! At least I was eight, that gives me some more leeway to--”  
  
“--Guys, please,” Ruby groused. David was hysterical. The subReddit was probably already talking about this. Emma was pretty positive there was a live stream somewhere. “Locksley you’ve got to make another pick.”

“Of course, Lucas,” Robin said. “I’d like everyone to take notice that my draft pick couldn’t take his picture in a timely fashion because Cap’s draft pick stalled him.”  
  
“That’s your kid, Locksley,” Killian yelled.

“No, no, for the next forty-eight hours, that’s your right winger.”  
  
“Oh my God. I want Rook on my team.”  
  
“Cap, you can’t go out of order,” Ruby yelled, jumping slightly in frustration and Phillip was already standing up.

“Yeah, I don’t care. Rook, c’mere, you know how to take faceoffs?”  
  
“Are you kidding me, Killian?” Liam shouted. They were all, apparently, going to stand up now. “You’re going to draft a winger before you draft an actual centerman. Whose rookie record for faceoff wins stood for a very long time.”  
  
“He’d like the record to show,” Anna intoned dramatically. Elsa had to put her hand over her mouth to stop her laughter. It didn’t work at all.

“Yeah, how’d that work out for you, Uncle Liam?” Matt asked archly.

Liam crossed his arms. “Don’t get uppity on me, kid. I’m willing to bet at least twenty bucks and some form of food for both you and your constantly hungry brother, if I win more faceoffs than you tomorrow.”  
  
“What if we’re on the same team?”  
  
“And I’m not always hungry,” Chris objected, a choir of _ehhs_ raining down on him.

“C, you literally ate an entire box of cinnamon LIFE this morning,” Matt sighed, refusing to acknowledge Peggy’s outcry at _that_. The media horde was going to have a field day with this. “Alright, Uncle Liam, you’re on. No matter what team we’re on. You win more faceoffs than me, I want food, real food, not street cart shit.”  
  
“Matthew,” several adults shouted, and both the media and fans laughed loudly.

“You got a deal, kid,” Liam said, finally sitting back down.

Ruby inhaled, shoulders moving with the force of it. “Can we take two seconds to focus on what we’re actually here to do?” she snapped. “Cap, you can have Rook, I honestly do not--”  
  
“--Hey, I thought there were rules,” Robin interrupted. He’d definitely done damage to several teeth when Ruby very clearly tried to turn him to stone with the force of her glare. “Fine, fine, fine, then I take Humbert.”

Graham flashed a cautious smile over his shoulder, and Killian groaned, slouching so his forearms rested on the podium.

“Hey, remember that time Humbert punched, Cap?” Will asked brightly. “That was fun. What good memories we’ve got, huh?”

“You’re not doing your draft stock any favors, Scarlet,” Emma chided. He winked at her.

Ruby had sat down at some point. This was going to get its own 30 for 30 based solely on the absurdity of it all. “Alright, Locksley,” she said. “Back to you.”

It went that way for what felt like several increasingly long eternities, Emma tugging Chris back down so she had something to lean on and he didn’t bother arguing when Peggy moved to rest her head on his leg. And Emma couldn't really say she was surprised. Even if she hadn’t known about the pre-draft meetings, she knew both Killian and Robin would absolutely try to pick Will last, but she hadn’t expected it to come down to him and Liam.

There was a considerable amount of cursing going on in Norwegian.

“This is honestly insulting,” Liam announced, not for the first time.

“And embarrassing,” Elsa chipped in. “Babe, you’ve got to sit down. The pacing thing is freaking me out and you’re only playing into KJ’s plan.”  
  
“I have no plan, El,” Killian promised, but his eyes flickered towards Emma and his answering smile when she mouthed _liar_ was honestly unfair. “I’m merely weighing my options.”  
  
“You’re being a jerk is what you’re being, KJ,” Anna corrected. “Lording your power.”  
  
“You think Liam will pull a hamstring from pacing so much? Can’t be healthy or a guy of age.”  
  
“Oh screw you, Killian,” Liam seethed, wincing when he realized what he’d said. “Sorry, Lucas. Just like...tell the media not to listen to me or something.”  
  
“Yeah, I don’t think it works like that,” Ruby said. She was still perched on the steps leading to the podiums, but she’d coerced Matt next to her some time in between the tenth and eleventh pick and they both looked dangerously close to falling asleep.

Emma wondered how much film had actually been watched the night before.

“Seriously, Cap,” Robin sighed. “It’s not that hard. Pick Scarlet and live with your spotty at best defense.”  
  
“What the hell, Locksley?” Will seethed. “Listen, you’re more removed from the game than I am. By, like, actual seasons.”  
  
“Four seasons, Scarlet.”  
  
“Five, actually. Do you not know how to tell time?”  
  
“God, did you really play that long after I retired?”  
  
Will nodded quickly, sarcasm practically radiating off the movement. “Yeah, you’re old, Locksley. And you are notoriously terrible in the defensive zone, so maybe you’re the one who needs a defender in this game.”  
  
“Where are you trying to get drafted, Scarlet?” Emma asked.

“At this point, I genuinely don’t care. I just want to go before Leader, so I can brag about that for the rest of time and then we can all get some food somewhere.”

“Yeah, seriously,” Ariel said, perched on the same seat as Mary Margaret with what appeared to be cookie crumbs sticking to the pads of her fingers.

Ruby made a noise that was equal parts absurd and impressive. “Did you teleport here?”

“Snuck in during the whole who gets to draft whose child debacle. M’s fed me, but this has honestly taken several lifetimes, right? Did someone feed Chris? He’s probably chewing Emma’s arm off back there.”  
  
“He and Pegs went to get pretzels like twenty minutes ago,” Emma explained. “You hit traffic in the tunnel?”  
  
“Someday that construction will be over. Hey, Pegs, how was your flight?”

Peggy opened her mouth to answer, but Ruby clicked her tongue and Liam threw his head back and there really weren’t many fans left. They’d exhausted the fans with their nonsense.

“You’ve really got to pick, KJ,” Elsa said, a note of _ancient_ command in her voice that made several next-gen children sit up straighter. “Just take Liam so Anna and I can freak out about it.”

Killian tilted his head, and Emma could almost hear the thoughts and the metaphorical gears, and she wasn’t entirely sure what she’d do if that happened, but the world still didn’t seem to care because--

“I’ll take Liam,” Killian said, shrugging like it wasn’t a big and huge and _emotional_ deal. “Need a centerman anyway.”  
  
“Wow, that’s a glorious show of support, little brother,” Liam muttered.

“Younger. And it’ll be easier for you to face off against Matt if you’re actually facing off against Matt.”  
  
“Jeez, Dad,” Matt mumbled. “That competitive streak knows no bounds, huh?”  
  
“You wouldn’t give me my number.”

“You going to score on a breakaway to impress, Mom?”  
  
Killian’s eyes flashed back towards Emma, standing again with an arm around Chris and something fluttering in her chest that might have been her heart or her pulse or the same thing it had done for _eons_ because he still looked at her the same way he had all those same eons ago.

And she knew the answer to the question already.

“Every single time,” Killian grinned. Smirked. It was really a smirk. God, that worked so well.

Peggy gagged. “You better score a breakaway too then, MD. Show off that speed or something.”

“Yeah, well, you made a sign, right, Mar?” he asked. She nodded. “Alright, alright, well, I’ve got a distinct lack of cinnamon LIFE in my apartment now, so what do you say, Dad?”  
  
Killian quirked an eyebrow. “To?”

“A wager. Best breakaway has to refill my apartment with food because your kid depleted all my recently purchased groceries and probably will when he stays over again tonight.”  
  
“I’m staying over again tonight?” Chris asked, excitement obvious in every letter.

Matt shrugged. “I figured.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, ok!”  
  
“Hey, uh, not to spoil this undeniably adorable and only slightly debaucherous Jones family moment,” Will cut in. “But is anyone going to bother to draft me because it’s garbage you guys are being jerks about this.”

Robin laughed, jumping off the podium with an agility that was only slightly surprising. “Sure thing Scarlet,” he said. “I draft you, and if you let up a single goal, especially a Cap breakaway while you’re on the ice, I will check my own top defenseman, deal?”  
  
“Jeez, Locksley, you are insane when given any power. Gina, you know he’s like this?”  
  
Regina waved her hands through the air, a grandkid asleep on her shoulder. “I’m refusing to acknowledge any of this. I’m showing up in orange tomorrow, Jones, try and keep me out of the Garden.”  
  
“I wouldn’t dare, Gina,” Killian promised. He glanced back at Matt, a smug smile on his face and arms crossed over the twenty that really was _both_ of theirs and Emma was going to hurt her neck shaking her head so often. “Alright, kid,” he said. “We’ve both got to try for breakaways, whoever gets it wins?”  
  
“What if you both get it?” Anna asked.

“Mom’ll judge,” Matt shrugged.

“No, no, no,” Emma exclaimed. “I am not doing that. I am not picking sides in any of this. This is absolutely insane and superstitious and I expect goals from both of you.”  
  
Killian laughed softly, covering more ground than Emma was entirely ready for and he was in her space almost immediately, lips on hers and a hand on her hip and the entire neighborhood probably groaned at that. “Deal, Swan,” Killian muttered, not bothering to move away from her mouth. “I’m totally going to win, though.”  
  
“God, that’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever said to me.”  
  
“This doesn’t answer the question though,” Anna pointed out. “If you guys both score on breakaways, then someone’s got to win the bet. Matt can’t be without cinnamon LIFE forever.”  
  
“God forbid,” Killian chuckled.

“I’ll do it,” Will said, a note in his voice that refused any questions. “I doubt either of them’ll score because my defense will be that good against Cap and Dr. J absolutely cannot cope with beating Cap, so I’m going to win by default. But I’m more than happy to judge if they manage to try it or whatever.”  
  
“Eloquent as always, Scarlet,” Robin murmured.

“Yeah, well you should have drafted me earlier. Can we eat now or should we stick around and scandalize the New York media some more?”  
  
“Nah, I think we’ve done more than enough of that,” Ruby said. “I refuse to share a cab with Cap and Emma. They’re going to make eyes at each other.”  
  
“Not true,” Emma argued, an arm around her shoulders and kids already groaning before she added. “We’re totally going to make out in the back of the cab, so…”  
  
Killian kissed the top of her hair. And hailed a cab. And made out in the backseat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY HOCKEY SEASON, HERE'S HOPING THE RANGERS AREN'T HORRENDOUS! Because of who I am as a person, I have lots of hockey feelings and translate all of them into fic and this seemingly never-ending world where everyone loves each other a lot and makes ridiculous bets and argues over who gets to wear what number. It genuinely blows my mind that you guys also care about all of those things. Thanks for clicking and reading and commenting. 
> 
> Also, because it's hockey season, I'm in total WRITE ALL THE THINGS mode, so if there's something particular you want to see I'm, more likely than not, down for it. Leave a comment. Send an ask. Shout at me. You can do all of those things on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com)


	14. For a Good Cause, Part Two

There was hair in his face.

Killian blinked, trying to get his bearings and remember what day it was and it only took a few seconds to remember  _exactly_ what day it was and he kind of resented the way his pulse stuttered at that realization. It was, he rationalized, because he also managed to inhale some of Emma’s hair when his breath hitched, but it was also because it was  _game day_ and it hadn’t been that in over a decade and he wasn’t really worried, but he might have been kind of excited and he’d totally woken up his wife.

“God, you think so loudly, it's like you're crashing into the boards,” Emma grumbled, flipping to face him and that only left him with even more hair in his face.

Killian blinked again. “I’m not sure that makes sense, love.”  
  
“That’s because it’s crazy early and you’re already plotting power play moves.”  
  
“Plotting seems to insinuate I’ve got nefarious plans, doesn’t it?”  
  
“I genuinely have no idea,” she admitted, a hint of laughter in her voice and a smile on her face and he briefly wondered if they could stay in bed for...several hours. Emma shook her head. “The thoughts are showing up with an organ now,” she said. “And like..I don’t know, a PA announcer and probably some confetti.”  
  
“Maybe a t-shirt gun,” Killian added.

“Oh, that was actually kind of funny. You don’t want one of those stupid cannon things they drag out between the second and third period?”  
  
“Do they still do that?”

Emma’s laugh seemed to echo between his ears, some kind of wake up call that was infinitely better than the alarm that was bound to go off sooner rather than later, and Killian figured it was a good sign that he was able to move quickly enough that he could still take her by surprise.

Her head crashed back onto the pillow when he pulled her forward, hair dangerously close to his mouth and, somehow, draped across his shoulder and he wasn’t entirely sure what his eyes did when she hitched her leg over his thigh, but he was only slightly concerned they were going to actually fall out of his head.

That would have made it difficult to play hockey.

Against his kid.

He had to get on Garden ice and play hockey against his kid while his other kids watched and Emma watched and Killian really wasn’t nervous, but he was almost always trying to impress Emma and those same kids and the prospect of playing hockey again made his heart feel as if it were about to beat out of his chest.

Excited wasn’t really the right word, anyway. Overjoyed might have been closer to it. Emma definitely knew that too.

They hadn’t really had to ask him to play. He’d kind of shouted  _yes_ in Merida’s face before she’d really gotten the words out of her mouth and, if asked, Killian would have promised he’d done it  _to make things easier_ and probably some absurd comment about his lingering popularity with fans, but it was absolutely neither one of those things.

He was absolutely going to score on the breakaway to try and impress his entire family.

Even if part of that family was on the other side of the ice and refusing to give up his number.

“I can’t believe you just asked that,” Emma muttered, laughter still clinging to the words even with her face burrowed against his shoulder. “You are at games. You have eyes. How do you not know about the t-shirt cannons?”  
  
“I did not say that I didn’t know about the cannons, Swan. I asked whether or not they still used them between the second and third because, usually, I’ve got stuff to do during the second and third period.”  
  
She hummed, the sound feeling as if it were vibrating under his skin and he refused to be held accountable for any of his thoughts a few hours before getting back on Garden ice. It was game day, or some other excuse. That definitely meant he could make out with his own wife.

And there was only one kid in the house – that made it very unlikely for them to get interrupted.

“Super important,” Emma mumbled, not bothering to move away from him. Her back arched when his fingers shifted though, drifting under the edge of her shirt and that felt a bit like a callback too, merch from Worlds several decades before and it was a miracle it hadn’t fallen apart several wash cycles ago.

That was a very sentimental thought. He couldn’t really think when she did that thing with her hips.

“Don’t act like you’re not impressed, love,” Killian chuckled. He wasn’t following much of a pattern, listening instead to every catch in her breath and shift of her shoulders, Emma’s teeth finding her lower lip when his fingers ghosted over the ridge of her spine. “You have a staring habit.”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
He nodded, lips brushing over the top of her hair and the side of her head and this was dissolving much quicker than he expected it to. He wasn’t really bothered by that. He hoped Peggy was in the shower.

Or still asleep.

He kind of wished Peggy had gone to her brother’s apartment too.

And Killian figured he’d make up for those thoughts by scoring later that afternoon.

“You heard me,” he said, leaning back to grin at Emma and she twisted her lips in response. “Your eyes do that thing when there’s a tie involved.”  
  
“That seems incredibly presumptuous.”  
  
“The opposite, in fact. I’ve got documented evidence.”  
  
“Yeah?” Emma asked. “Where is it? I’d like it in writing and, like, triplicate or something.”  
  
Killian laughed, stretching his legs out under the small mountain of blankets draped over them and that was a very large mistake because it only ended with most of Emma’s body plastered against him. She lifted her eyebrows.

“I don’t have that,” he said, a little frustrated by the slight shake in his voice. “Just my own personal observations.”  
  
“Observations are different than evidence.”  
  
“This seems to be suggesting you don’t trust my observations, Swan.”  
  
Her teeth dug further into her lip, a move that was still as distracting as it had been before the first game day he’d woken up with hair in his face and it wasn’t all that surprising how much he desperately wanted to win.

Still and always and indefinitely.

Competitive weirdo.

They could probably be a little late, though. The entire team probably assumed they were going to be late. There was definitely time to figure out if he could get that shirt off Emma without ripping it in half.

Killian really wouldn’t have minded if he ripped it in half.

“That’s not what I’m saying at all,” Emma argued. “I’m just pointing out the differences in words and definitions and all that. As the only person in this family with some kind of actual college degree, it seems like it’s my job too--”

She didn’t finish. Or he didn’t let her finish. Really the specifics weren’t important. He didn’t have the degree to back it up anyway.

Killian moved again, twisting and flipping Emma so her shoulders pressed into the mattress and the whole day, even whatever bruises he inevitably got because Will was absolutely going to try to check him as soon as he got on the ice, would be worth it if only because he got to keep hearing her laugh and see her smile and she definitely wanted to win too.

He shifted his weight, careful not to let his hips come in contact with hers – a move that proved increasingly difficult when Emma kept squirming underneath him, eyes bright and tongue pressed into the side of her cheek.

And he didn’t really groan when he moved, bracketing her legs with his, but this wasn’t that first game day and there were three kids since then and several decades and several different muscles ached on a regular basis. Emma pressed her lips together, the ends quirking up and it was clear she was trying not to laugh – or tease.

She leaned back, tilting her chin up and digging her shoulder blades into pillows and mattress in equal measure, and Killian nearly fell on top of her when her leg hooked around the back of his calf. Emma beamed.

“I think I won, Cap,” she said, letting her heel drift closer to his knee and a knot of scar tissue that never entirely healed after blocking a shot in that last Cup run.

“I wasn’t aware we were battling, love.”  
  
“Battling? God, you’re very violent already, aren’t you?”  
  
“Are we going to get into the specifics of my word choices when you’re playing distraction? Because that doesn’t really seem fair either.”  
  
Her lips quirked, and if she didn’t stop doing  _whatever_ to her lower lip, he was actually going to tear that shirt to shreds. With his bare hands. He didn’t think it would be all that difficult. “You’re the one who was making veiled allusions to my staring habit when you wear those stupid ties,” she accused. “Also, the feats of strength thing is absolutely stupid and totally unnecessary. You really don’t have to throw me around. It’s just going to make you tired before you play.”  
  
Killian’s jaw dropped slightly, Emma’s smile turning victorious and they needed to get out of bed before they threw any sense of caution to the metaphorical wind and...screw it. He lunged forward, a hand around both her wrist in two seconds flat and his laugh sounded impossibly loud when she gasped. Her foot stilled on his leg, far too cold to be entirely comfortable, but he was almost used to that after those previously discussed decades, and they both groaned when her back arched, a mess of limbs and hips and he didn’t bother taking a deep breath before he ducked his head and caught her lips with his.

Emma didn’t sag backwards, but she might have sighed against his mouth and Killian counted that as part of the inevitable victory. That lasted as long as it took her  _other_ leg to wrap around him, though, and she chuckled lightly when he groaned against her.

“You know, this all feels very cyclical,” Emma mumbled, pulling away from his lips to drag her own against the curve of his jaw and the stubble he probably should have shaved before he got back on the ice for the first time in nearly fifteen years.

“Swan, why are you talking?”  
  
She clicked her tongue, but Killian swore he  _felt_ that too and his left hand had worked under her shirt at some point. It wasn’t that hard, the stupid thing was halfway up her body as soon as he started rocking against her, some kind of subconscious move that probably wasn’t really all that subconscious when he was actively trying to undress Emma.

“Am I not supposed to be talking?” she asked, the question turning a bit more breathless the higher his hand inched up her side. “Shit,” she muttered, and Killian laughed against her collarbone. “We do not have time for this.”  
  
“I disagree.”  
  
“We’ll get yelled at.”  
  
“I don’t care about that.”  
  
“Of course you don’t.”  
  
Killian smirked, eyebrows jumping and twisting and he was pretty positive that worked better now than it had when they first started dating. “That sounds vaguely like an insult, love,” he pointed out. “And honestly almost rude with my hand so far up your shirt.”  
  
“I didn’t tell you to put your hand there.”  
  
“Would you like me to move it?”  
  
Emma groaned, but it lacked any sense of real frustration, particularly with her legs stilled wrapped around him. That made him almost confident in the whole thing. “I didn’t say that either,” she grumbled. He kissed along her neck, mouth moving without much purpose except to get her to make  _that_ noise and ensure that her hips kept rocking against his and they were probably going to ruin Peggy’s morning. “God, I can’t think when you do that,” Emma sighed, eyes falling closed and shoulders going slack and they really should have taken the shirt off, if only to ensure that the shirt didn’t strangle her.

“That’s absolutely the point,” Killian muttered. “Swan, you’ve got to take this shirt off.”  
  
“We don’t have time.”  
  
“And I still don’t care, but I’m assuming you’ll be frustrated if we rip this actual ancient relic.”  
  
“You make it sound like it’s going to raise ghosts of hockey past or something.”  
  
“I’d really rather it didn’t while we’re in the middle of this.”  
  
Her body shook when she laughed, and that didn’t really do much to change Killian’s current line of thinking. “What a charmer you are,” Emma said, eyes still closed. Her fingers drifted over the back of his neck, carding through the ends of his hair. “I was just saying...God, did you grow more fingers or something?”  
  
“Swan, you’re honestly ruining the moment.”  
  
“Ok, that’s less charming,” she whined, but she tilted her head back to give him more room to work and there was something that sounded like noise coming from the kitchen. “I’m just--”  
  
Killian quirked an eyebrow when she cut herself off again, fingers drifting dangerously close to the clasp of her bra and they really didn’t have time. He was never going to care about that.

It was game day.

Or something slightly more romantic.

“You were saying, love?”  
  
“God, you’re infuriating.”  
  
“See, you’re saying that, but you’re the one who’s doing that thing in my hair and--”

At some point it probably would have been a good idea to finish their sentences, but they’d never been  _great_ at that and they’d always been  _excellent_ at flirting and kissing and a distinct combination of both several hours before puck drop. Killian inhaled sharply when Emma surged up, tongue tracing over his bottom lip until he opened against her and it wasn’t exactly the battle she’d called it before, but it was pretty damn close.

The word  _bruising_ came to mind.

She kissed him like she was trying to mark her territory or something. That wasn’t very romantic either. He figured it was because he had definitely come up with power play schemes the night before. He really wanted to score.

Literally. And metaphorically. It didn’t matter. He kept kissing his wife.

And they did, eventually, manage to get the shirt off – before it was reduced to tatters or used as part of a seance to the ancient hockey gods – pillows on the floor and blankets kicked away from them and Emma’s grin seemed to curl across her mouth in slow motion when she flipped her head to stare at Killian.

Her eyes were distractingly green.

“Cyclical,” she said softly, fingers brushing over the back of his arm and lacing between his. Her right hand wrapped up with his left. “Or maybe traditional? What do you think makes more sense?”  
  
“You were the one touting your college degree before, love.”  
  
She scoffed. “Game day, huh?”

“Is that a pregame complaint?”  
  
“Nah,” Emma promised, twisting back towards him and her head on his shoulder felt a bit like a tradition too. “Just a pregrame fact. Like the use of t-shirt cannons between the second and third period and my only minimal sky-high expectations that I’ll get a breakaway goal out of today.”  
  
Killian kissed her before he could consider all the inevitable shouts and jeers they’d receive when they showed up to the Garden several minutes behind schedule. They were already working on borrowed time. The noise in the kitchen was reaching absolutely absurd levels.

“Can you have minimal sky-high expectations?” Killian asked. “Seems to suggest they’re rather high based on the average height of the sky.”  
  
“I’m not sure that made sense at all, but you’ve still kind of got that post-sex haze look to you, so I’m going to take it as a compliment.”  
  
He rolled her again, more laughter and smiles and the very real possibility that one of them was going to sprain something, and it really was borrowed time.

“I waited almost a full hour,” Peggy yelled, and her voice was not coming from the other side of the door. Killian lowered his eyebrows. “But this coffee maker is from the future, I swear, so if you guys stop whatever and caffeinate me, that’d be stellar!”  
  
“There are buttons on the front, Margaret,” Killian called back. She groaned. So did Emma.

“Those buttons make no sense at all,” Emma promised, twisting out from underneath him and she grabbed a different shirt. The first one was probably lost forever under a pile of pillows. “I’ll be right there, Pegs. Please try not to break anything.”  
  
Peggy gagged.

She was sitting on the counter when Killian moved into the kitchen half an hour later, hair still damp from the shower and no one had actually told him if he had to get dressed up before this game. “Did Mom already try and get you off there?” he asked, nodding towards the legs hanging a few inches above the floor.

Peggy shrugged, both her hands wrapped around what was very likely her second or third cup of coffee. “I think she’s just kind of realized she’s fighting a losing battle on that front.”  
  
“And standing right here,” Emma added. “When you sprain your ankle jumping off there, don’t come crying to me.”  
  
“Wow, Mom, that’s ridiculously harsh.”  
  
“You’re the one with a habit of breaking bones, babe.”  
  
“That happened one time! And it was several lifetimes ago.”  
  
“Not that long ago,” Killian argued, grabbing his own mug and Ruby was going to kill all of them for how late they were inevitably going to be.

“Seven years, Dad. Seven.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Seven.”  
  
“Honestly?”  
  
“Why would I lie about that?” Peggy asked. She pushed her half-finished mug into his arm when he moved towards the now-functioning coffee maker. “There’s creamer in the fridge.”  
  
“You do have legs, Pegs.”  
  
“Were you trying to rhyme or…” She tugged her lips back behind her teeth when his gaze snapped towards her, eyebrows lifted and head tilted slightly and he couldn’t really ground her, but he could  _stare_ and both he and Emma had gotten very good at that. “God, that’s so stupid,” Peggy sighed, hopping off the counter and all but yanking the fridge open. “You know you won’t be able to captain intimidate MD on the ice. It’s not going to work.”  
  
“I’m not going to do that.”  
  
“Eh,” Peggy and Emma said at the same time, and Killian wasn’t sure who scrunched their nose first when they realized their voices sounded almost identical. And Peggy was wearing  _his_ number, the C on her shoulder practically blinding when she turned back around.

“Dad, you’re doing the face thing again,” she said, using his shoulder as leverage to push herself back onto the counter. “And I’m serious about MD, he’s nervous enough as is.”  
  
If Killian’s eyebrows got any lower they were going to be in his eyes. “What?”  
  
“Dad, are you serious?”  
  
He glanced at Emma, a rueful smile on her face and that shouldn’t have surprised him either. He was well aware of the expectations that came with being his kid on his team, but it wasn’t really his team anymore and that was the first time Killian’s ever thought that without wanting to check several living human beings.

It actually almost made him smile.

Peggy took a sip of coffee. “The number thing was totally him being an idiot,” she said. “But also because he’s constantly trying to be you, so this whole game is just going to be one great, big whirlwind of Jones family feelings. I think that was a headline somewhere yesterday, actually.”  
  
“Are you looking at headlines?”

“Uncle David was. And so was Leo wherever he was yesterday.”  
  
“Binghamton,” Emma answered. “Or at least that’s what Reese’s told me. Some kind of ridiculous hit streak, obviously.”  
  
“Obviously,” Peggy echoed. “And far too much time on his hands. He asked for a stream link and I told him to text Ru because I’m not that involved.”  
  
“No?” Killian questioned, tugging on the front of her shirt.

“I mean, only as much as my last name requires me to be. Plus I wore MD’s shirt yesterday, figured it was your turn or something. Whatever.”  
  
“Whatever.”  
  
Peggy rolled her eyes, but there was a hint of color in her cheeks and Emma kept drinking coffee, like it was a distraction to the emotions that had suddenly descended on their kitchen. “You can’t just keep repeating me, it’s a bad interview look,” Peggy mumbled. “You going to score later?”  
  
“Be kind of embarrassing if I didn’t, huh?”

“Nah,” she said, shaking her head and half her hair fell out of the tie it was in. “I just...I don’t know, maybe Toph isn’t the only one super excited to see you play.”  
  
Killian was grateful for the mug in his hand, if only because he had something to grip that wasn’t the counter his daughter wasn’t, technically, supposed to be sitting on. He tightened his hold, strong enough that he was probably close to breaking it, fingernails digging into the heel of his hand, but it suddenly felt like the world was spinning the wrong direction.

His heart was trying to beat its way out of his chest again.

“At least one goal,” Killian said, stepping out of the way before Peggy’s flailing legs could inadvertently kick him. “Of the breakaway variety.”  
  
“It’d be a shame not show off all that speed, Cap.”  
  
“Is that your official scouting report?”  
  
Peggy’s answering smile probably fueled all of the electricity on the entire island of Manhattan for the rest of the weekend. “I didn’t think you’d do that,” she muttered.

“That’d be even more embarrassing than not scoring.”

“Well, MD is super fast, but he’s never really learned how to stop, so if you get him pinned in the offensive zone, it’d probably be fairly easy to get the puck off his stick. And Uncle Will is going to gun for you as soon as they blow the whistle, so watch your six and make sure you don’t leave yourself exposed in the neutral zone.”  
  
“Anything else?”  
  
“Rol is really good at screening the net because he’s unnaturally tall, so you should probably let him do that instead of you when you get the inevitable power play.”  
  
“You think we’re going to get a power play?”  
  
“I think aside from that breakaway to impress Mom, that’s your best bet on scoring. Also I don’t know if you want to be on the ice as the same time as Rol. Mostly because you and Rook are so used to playing together.”  
  
Killian swallowed, not entirely prepared for the rush of feelings and Peggy nearly fell off the counter when she tried to twist back towards the coffee maker. “I doubt Rol will appreciate being made a second-liner,” he argued. “And that was a long time ago.”  
  
“It’s like riding a bike, though, right?” Emma asked. She pushed on Peggy’s shoulder when her fingers ghosted over the handle of the coffee pot,  _mom face_ and more feelings and--”You’ve got to drink some water at some point, babe.”  
  
“Maybe when we get to the Garden,” Peggy said, an absolute lie that Killian couldn’t ground her for either. “The lines are your call, Dad. But I’m just saying, you and Rook scored that goal Toph was freaking out about yesterday. Something, something, history. And it’s probably better if Rol and MD aren’t on the ice at the same time.”

“That might be true,” Emma admitted. “Please drink some water. Do not break any appliances while I shower and text Rubes to tell her we’re going to be late.”  
  
“No way, she’ll kill me through the phone.”  
  
“And, we’re not going to be that late,” Killian added, flinching at the look on his wife and daughter’s respective and collective faces. “They should expect it, at this point.”  
  
Emma rolled her eyes, a quick brush of lips over his cheek and she had to press up on her toes to reach him. “Something, something, game day,” she mumbled, ignoring Peggy when she made another noise. “At least get a car, babe.”

Peggy did, in fact, get the car, the driver only momentarily stunned by the people in his backseat and the frankly ridiculous amount of team merch they were all wearing. And they weren’t really  _that_ late, but Ruby was still standing in Chase Square when they opened the car door, an actual headset on and her heel threatening to push through the ground.

“You take lessons from Gina on that?” Emma asked, shaking her hair off her shoulders and Ruby’s eyebrows jumped at the lack of a ‘C’ on her t-shirt.

“I knew you guys would be late, but I didn’t think you’d be close to insubordinate. Cap, you know you still have to change, right?”

“Yes, Lucas,” he answered. “Strangely enough, I still remember that I am required to wear some equipment when I get on the ice.”

“The sarcasm is not as cute as you think it is.”  
  
“I’m not trying to be cute for you.”  
  
“God, that’s so gross. Pegs, are you grossed out by this?”  
  
Peggy made a dismissive noise in the back of her throat. “I’m pretty used to it. Where’s MD and Toph?”  
  
“Here already because they understand the concept of a schedule and also probably in the locker room.”  
  
“Which one?”

Ruby growled, low and vaguely threatening and Killian could just make out Merida’s frantic voice coming from one of the headset speakers. “Do not make that face, Cap,” she seethed. “I’m not sure how, but I’m pretty positive this is all your fault. If your kid wasn’t even more competitive than you are, we wouldn’t have had to move things--”  
  
“--Who’s moving things?” Emma interrupted. Ruby made the noise again.

“Your kid. And Locksley, but mostly your kid. Who refused to get ready in the visitor’s locker room. And also Scarlet. Who said that those lockers were insulting. But you guys are crazy late and Cap’s wearing an ancient t-shirt like that’s allowed, so I’m blaming you and your talented hockey-playing son.”

“No one told me what the dress code was for this event, Lucas,” Killian reasoned.

“It’s a team event, Cap. You should have assumed suit.”  
  
“Did Scarlet wear a suit?”  
  
“Shut up.”

Killian laughed, a victory before the game and Ruby’s eyes went dangerously thin. “Sorry for showing up late, Lucas. My stuff in my locker?”  
  
“It has not been your locker for actual seasons,” Emma muttered, but Ruby was already nodding and trying to placate Merida and he could hear yelling as soon as they moved into the hallway.

There were people everywhere, phones out and a sea of blue – except for the very distinct orange that was absolutely Regina and possibly Lizzie – and it was difficult to find a few inches of space that wasn’t already occupied or covered by a stick.

Roland was tossing a puck in the air, sprawled in front of a locker next to Robin with a smile on his face. “Nice of you to show, Hook. Dad was certain he was going to win by forfeit.”  
  
“That’s not how this works,” Killian said, catching the puck before Roland could and working a frustrated, not-quite-adult groan out of him. “And we’re really not that late.”  
  
“I told you,” Matt cried. He was on the other side of the room, already in a jersey that Emma probably had plans to auction off in the near future, chin resting on Chris’ head and a stick gripped tightly in his hand. “That’s just Mom and Dad. You coming up with power play schemes, Dad, is that what it was?”  
  
“That’s privileged information, Matthew.”  
  
“And that’s a yes,” Will grinned. “You going to get changed, or, like, what’s your plan here, Cap?”

“You having trouble lacing up your skates?”  
  
“Obviously not. I’m just diverting some of my attention to trash talking you because one, you showed up late and there’s something that almost looks like a hickey on your neck and--”

“Oh my God, Scarlet, shut up,” Robin groaned.

Will smiled wide enough that every one of his teeth was visible. Matt appeared to be trying to melt into the locker room carpet. “And,” Will repeated. “Because much like Locksley, you are more removed from the game than I am and also because your kid is way faster than you are with less turnovers in the neutral zone.”  
  
Robin made some kind of impossible noise, something that sounded like an actual crow or possibly some kind of howl, and Killian could not sigh loudly enough without threatening to do permanent damage to his lungs.

Will finished tying his skates.

“You are notoriously bad in the neutral zone, KJ,” Elsa shrugged, standing on the bench in front of what actually used to be Liam’s locker so she could draw eye black on his cheeks.

Killian glared at her. Matt was still trying to melt.

“El, are you even supposed to be in here?”  
  
“Who exactly is going to stop me?”  
  
“I don’t know that you’ve got as much clout as you think you do, KJ,” Anna said, sticking a phone in his face and the shutter sounded incredibly loud. “Also, if you could stick to fewer than five turnovers in the neutral zone, that’d be great.”  
  
“Did you bet on this, Banana?”  
  
“You bet with your own kid. You do not get to lecture me.”  
  
“She’s got a point there,” Emma muttered, and Killian gaped at her.

“Traitor.” She shrugged, but her laugh moved  _into_ his body, he was sure, as soon as he pulled her flush against his chest and he really did have to get changed. Someone had hung a sign in his locker. It said  _skate fast_ in very large letters.

“Killian, if you could stop flirting with your own wife, so Lucas doesn’t kill us when we inevitably annoy all the fans, that’d be fantastic,” Liam grumbled, muttering a quick apology when Elsa hissed  _stop moving_.

“Plus, we can’t ruin his power play schemes if we’re not actually on the ice,” Matt added. He grinned when Killian’s head snapped up, far too familiar to be entirely comforting and he was going to have a difficult time coping with his kid being on the same ice he was.

His kid totally knew that.

“Enjoy buying your own groceries later this week,” Killian said.

“That’s the most scathing trash talk I’ve ever heard,” Roland chuckled.

Emma sighed, but it still sounded almost entertained, particularly when her arm was still wrapped around Killian’s middle. “Alright,” she announced, Peggy mumbling something that sounded like  _I am the captain now_ under her breath. Both Matt and Chris almost fell over. They would have landed on more sticks.

Emma narrowed her eyes.

And everyone with a Jones last name immediately froze.

“Shit, that was impressive,” Will breathed. Roland elbowed him. Like he was worried he was going to get grounded too.

“Anyone who is not playing in this game needs to be out of this locker room in the next five minutes,” Emma continued. Chris opened his mouth to object, and Killian probably would have agreed with him, but he was kind of selfish and kind of hoping to impress everyone with a Jones last name and he’d definitely made sure they were late. Emma shook her head. “Nope,” she said, popping her lips on the word. “Not on the roster, not in the locker room. They’ve got pre-game and some thing with ESPN and there is food in the team suite, so--”

“--So, you’re always hungry, Chris,” David finished, slinging an arm around him. “Alright, Em, you’ve effectively handled the troops. Move out, kids.”  
  
Peggy saluted, but not before wrapping both her arms around Killian’s middle and he kissed the top of her hair, a  _thanks for the sign, little love_ pressed into the crown of her head. She jogged towards Matt, tugging on the front of his jersey, and Killian was only slightly distracted from that by Emma’s lips on his cheek again.

“Skate fast,” she said, and he grinned when her arms moved around his neck. “I want my goal.”  
  
“Aye, aye, Cap.”  
  
“That’s what I like to hear.”

And, really, it wasn’t all that strange being back on Garden ice – Killian had skated more often than he probably should even after retirement and a kid on the first line, but he wasn’t entirely prepared to watch that same kid lean over the visitor’s side boards, shaking off one of his gloves so he could do a not-so-secret handshake with Roland Locksley before the game started.

“Fraternizing with the enemy, Dr. J,” Will called, not bothering to slow down when he slammed into Killian’s side. “Have they always done that?”  
  
Killian hummed, Robin nodding as well until they were some kind of one-two punch of  _fatherhood_ and slightly scratchy jerseys. “As long as I can remember,” Robin said, dousing Phillip’s skates with ice and rolling his eyes when that was met with a string of curses. “Oh, relax, Rook. You act like I just got a major.”  
  
“Misconduct,” Liam corrected. “These jerseys feel incredibly uncomfortable to any of you?”  
  
“Don’t tell Lucas that,” Killian advised.

“That’s not an answer. I feel like it’s scratching my skin off.”  
  
“I think that means you put your pads on wrong, Leader,” Will chuckled, and at some point he’d started leaning most of his weight against Killian’s side. “God, Cap, can you stand up on your skates, we’re both going to fall over and then how are you going to impress Emma?”  
“By beating his own kid, obviously,” Phillip shrugged. “Seriously, how involved is that handshake?”  
  
“Way too complex,” Matt answered, hopping onto the edge of the board and Killian wished his kids would stop flinging their limbs places. That probably wasn’t ever going to happen. “And it hasn’t been forever. I was at least, what, nine?”  
  
Roland shook his head. “Nah, that was before U17, so you must have been like…”  
  
“Nine. That’s how math works, right?”  
  
“Don’t act like you know how math works, you didn’t graduate college.”  
  
“Neither did you! You went to less college than me. Also like...Michigan?”  
  
“Is an academic institution, Matthew David,” Roland growled, and Matt nearly fell into the bench. “Oh shut up, I can’t believe Hook won’t let me beat you up.”  
  
“We are not advocating for violence here,” Killian sighed, but the words lacked much parental authority when the other adults around him were far too busy laughing at him to agree with him.

“Yeah, yeah, that was super responsible,” Liam said. “You hate these uniforms too? You keep shifting your weight on your skates.”  
  
“That’s because he’s nervous about impressing Emma,” Robin explained.

Matt hit his stick against the boards. “Can we not? I’m sitting right here!”  
  
“Yeah, if you think that’s ever stopped your Mom and Dad from making eyes at each other, then you’ve got another thing coming, Dr. J,” Will chuckled.

“Can absolutely confirm,” Roland guaranteed. Matt’s head noticeably fell forward.

“Oh my God.”  
  
The referee – there was a referee, more than one, each of them with whistles and full uniforms and Killian was only slightly impressed at how well organized the whole thing was – blew his whistle, corralling them and getting starters back on the bench and there were anthems and announcements and Killian kept shifting his weight between his skates.

“You nervous?” Liam asked, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye like he was a teenager and trying to win a national championship.

Killian shook his head. “You?”  
  
“Nah, who gets nervous about hockey?”  
  
“Certainly not us. And these jerseys are too new. That’s why they feel so shitty.”  
  
“Oh, yeah, yeah,” Liam nodded. “That totally makes sense actually. Lucas going to make us sign them later.”  
  
“Probably Emma.”  
  
“Ah, I can’t make sarcastic comments to her.”  
  
“I mean, you could,” Killian said. “She’d just probably check you in response. Or volley back some equally scathing and sarcastic comment.”  
  
“Volley, huh? I think you’re mixing sports clichés, little brother.”  
  
Killian chuckled, glancing up at the enormous scoreboard above them and the crowd was loud, tickets selling out quickly, per Emma’s explanation a few weeks before, and Ruby’s bragging a few moments later, and he knew he couldn’t actually see her in the team suite, but his eyes moved that direction anyway and he could feel Liam’s smile boring into the side of his head.

“I think we did ‘em pretty proud, huh?” he asked, and Killian didn’t have to tell him to be more specific. He nodded. He couldn’t do much else.

“I hope so.”  
  
“Yeah, I think we did. Maybe not when we both start trash talking your own kid, but--”  
  
“--Ah, they would have expected that.”  
  
Liam laughed, head thrown back and body shaking slightly only his skates. “Yeah, that’s probably true,” he admitted. “I’m going to be annoyed if he beats me. He’s totally going to beat me. His hands are too quick.”  
  
“You’re a God awful trash talker.”

“And you better not turn the puck over more than five times in the neutral zone.”

The referee blew the whistle again, a signal to move to center ice and a game and Killian smiled as soon as his kid came to a slightly wobbly stop on the logo. “Not a word, Dad,” Matt hissed, bending his knees and twisting his shoulders and Liam wasn’t even in position yet.

He was going to lose so badly.

“I didn’t say a single thing,” Killian chuckled. “You sound paranoid, kid. How late were you up last night?”  
  
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business at all. And only kind of late because I had to keep feeding your kid.”  
  
“Ah, he’s my kid when he’s hungry, huh?”  
  
“He’s hungry all the time, it’s unnatural.”  
  
“Trust me, you were just as bad when you were thirteen,” Killian promised, a chorus of agreements and Roland’s  _can confirm_ echoing around them. “Try not to draw a penalty later, ok? We’ve got a really good power play scheme and Scarlet’s shit on the PK anyway.”  
  
“Aw, c’mon, Cap,” Will sighed, but the words got drowned out by the sound of another whistle and Matt’s wrists were  _insanely_ quick.

“That’s one,” Matt yelled, and he was already moving into the offensive zone, Killian groaning when most of his muscles objected at the very idea of skating after him. Liam cursed in Norwegian.

There hadn’t been much practicing before the game – several promises from so-called Rangers legends that  _we don’t have to Lucas, we know how to play_ – but that was proving more and more of a mistake as the game went on and Killian wasn’t sure intermission had ever felt that short when he was actually playing.

“I feel like my muscles are actually melting off my body,” Phillip groaned, collapsing onto the bench in front of his locker. “That can’t be healthy, right?”

“I don’t think so,” Roland laughed. “Didn’t you guys stretch?”  
  
Robin glared at him. And they really shouldn’t have been sharing a locker room during intermission, but they were all a bunch of sentimental and competitive idiots who resolutely refused to do anything if it wasn’t the exact same way they’d done it nearly twenty years earlier.

“I’m just saying, Dad,” Roland continued, grabbing another pair of gloves from the top of his locker. “You’re looking like...half a blade behind.”  
  
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Matt groaned.

“How many faceoffs you win?”  
  
“Way more than Uncle Liam. I think he’s going to have some trouble catching up.”  
  
“There are two more periods left in this game,” Liam said evenly, but Killian  _knew_ that tone and it usually ended with a stick under his shoulder blades. “You can’t possibly keep winning at that percentage. It’s unnatural.”  
  
“Should I mention my hockey lineage or is that bad trash talk because it’s actually kind of complimentary to you?”  
  
“Killian, ground your kid.”  
  
“Nah, it’ll be worse if Emma does it post-game,” Killian said, and both Liam and Phillip nodded in agreement. Matt’s face paled slightly. “Also, I’ve seen nothing even resembling a breakaway yet, so I don’t know that you’ve got much of a leg to stand on, kid.”  
  
Matt didn’t blink, just crossed his arms over the front of his jersey and the hair on his forehead was dangerously close to his eyes. He really needed a haircut. That was a perpetual issue when he was a kid.

“You haven’t scored yet either,” he pointed out.

“Yet being the operative word there.”  
  
“Awful confident.”  
  
“In the source of your hockey lineage? Yes.”  
  
Matt blinked. And ground. Loudly. “Jeez, Dad.”  
  
“And he’s worried your mom will ground him too if he doesn’t score,” Robin muttered as a buzzer went off somewhere and they had to get back on the ice.

That was probably for the best.

And Matt won three more faceoffs before it happened. It was, relatively, quick – barely enough time to react, but that was kind of his  _thing_ and maybe playing hockey was a bit like riding a bike, catching up to his kid in the middle of the ice without one of his lungs actually collapsing and the whole crowd  _ooooh_ ’ed when they both slammed into the glass in the corner of the zone.

“Ah, shit,” Matt groaned, twisting to try and push away with his shoulder. That was his first mistake. Or, well, his second. The first one wasn’t checking to make sure no one was behind him in the neutral zone. “God, are you actually made of marble?”  
  
“That’s very specific,” Killian laughed. He tried to angle his stick, move the blade around Matt’s right skate, but there was a lot of  _Matt_ in the way and despite all the trash talk it was kind of a strange line to walk when presented with the prospect of checking his own son.

“That’s the first stone I could think of. No wonder everyone was so intimidated by you when you played, I feel like I just got hit with an eighteen-wheeler.”  
  
“I think you’re overplaying the references now, kid.”  
  
“Oh my God, you cannot call me kid while you’re trying to dislocate my ankle.”  
  
“I am doing no such thing,” Killian objected, but that felt a little hollow when he moved his stick again and there really wasn’t much padding there. “This is your fault anyway. Who taught you how to skate from blue line to blue line?”  
  
“That’s a trick question, I’m not answering that.”

“Why don’t you know how to stop better?”  
  
“I think that’s pretty telling about your instructions, Dad,” Matt groaned, holding his stick with one hand to try and push himself away from the glass and the crowd sounded like it was getting louder. The people in front of them were shaking the pane and Ruby would be incredibly pissed if they actually broke that. “Seriously, why can’t you get the puck out yet?”  
  
“I don’t see you with the puck on your stick either.”  
  
“Because I’m way too busy trying to defend myself. How is this not a penalty?”

He moved again, an elbow finding its way into Killian’s stomach. And they were both far too busy groaning and grousing and doing an, honestly, pretty terrible job of trash talking each other to realize that they’d drawn a bit of an audience.

There was still a game to play.

The closest referee was shouting, a string of increasingly creative curses that probably would have been impressive if both Matt and Killian weren’t yelling at each other in a Norwegian, and he was going to break his stick before he got the goddamn puck out of the corner.

“Dad, seriously, just back up,” Matt growled, but he didn’t stop fighting either and his limbs had minds of their own.

“If you don’t stop hip checking me, I’m going to--”  
  
“--What? What could you possibly do? I think my entire spine is bruised.”  
  
“Learn how to stop then.”  
  
Matt glared at him, gritting his teeth obviously through his visor and it looked kind of absurd because his mouth guard was always blue. Killian tried not to laugh too loudly.

“Well, this is just embarrassing,” Phillip muttered, moving into the fray and most of the players on the ice were on that half of the ice. “Cap, if you don’t skate right now, I’m going to push you in front of the zamboni in between periods.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Skate, god damn, Cap!”  
  
Killian tried to process those words at the same time he tried to ignore whatever Matt’s stick was doing to the back of his left calf, but then Liam was shouting too and Phillip had the puck on his stick and there was far too much open ice.

“Oh, shit,” he breathed, and Matt looked close to exploding when he realized what was happening.

The whole thing hurt like hell, happened in a bit of a blur and increasingly loud cheers and Killian was only a little worried his thighs were actually going to burst into flames by time Liam passed to him, just ahead of the far blue line with enough ease that they almost looked like they’d practiced.

There was only one defender back, a quick juke and forehand, backhand, and it didn’t really hut when he, finally, pulled back for his shot. Just over the right shoulder of the goalie.

The light went off.

Killian spun on the spot, slamming into a different pane of glass and the whole, stupid thing shook when the fans behind him started hitting it, cheering and shouting and it was all kind of making his ears ring. Liam reached him first, something that sounded like  _what a move_ and Phillip threw one of his gloves at them, like that was normal or acceptable anywhere except a charity game.

And it made as much sense as it had during anthems, but Killian’s eyes darted up and he hoped she was yelling.

He knew she was jumping up and down.

They brought the t-shirt cannon out in between the second and third period, as promised, more trash talk during an intermission that, somehow, felt even shorter and Matt didn’t say anything.

That was as disconcerting as anything else – because Matt was almost  _too_ much like Killian and Killian had never been very good at losing and Matt was even faster than he was.

The whistle blew with just over ten minutes left in the period.

Matt spun out, the defender Killian didn’t really know still laying on the ice where he’d tried to get into the lane and both Robin and Graham were screaming about penalties from the bench.

“That’s a goddamn penalty shot,” Graham yelled. “He totally got in his lane.”  
  
“Impeded his forward motion completely,” Robin added, and Killian could not roll his eyes hard enough. Mostly because they were right.

“You think he goes five-hole?” Will asked. Killian widened his eyes. “Don’t look at me like that, Cap. He goes five-hole because you told him to go five-hole. And trash talk is exhausting, don’t act like you’re not secretly hoping he scores.”  
  
Killian opened his mouth, ready to object or argue, but that felt kind of pointless when Will lifted his eyebrows and--”Nah, I bet he tries to juke the goalie. He’s going to take his time, though, just to mess with him.”  
  
“Ah, well, no one loves on-ice mind games more than Dr. J.”

That was true too. And Matt took his time and then some, weaving between faceoff circles with a smile on his face and his wrists were probably set some kind of biological and medical record. That was probably because of Emma. Killian assumed everything inherently good about their kids was because of Emma.

Matt was only a few feet away from the crease, puck in front of his left skate and his hands moved so quickly, it didn’t look like anything happened at first. He twisted his shoulders, balanced on his toes when he pulled the puck in front of him with the backside of his stick and Killian had no idea how he got so much height on his shot.

“Well, fuck,” Will breathed, and that about summed it up. “Where did that even go?”  
  
“Over the goalie’s right pad.”  
  
“God.”  
  
Killian hummed, something that felt a whole hell of a lot like pride blooming in his chest – especially when Matt’s celebration looked oddly familiar.

“Man, it’s so weird when he does that,” Roland muttered, appearing next to them for a line change Killian had forgotten about entirely. “It’s like watching history repeat itself or something.”

“Incorrect,” Matt cried from the other side of the ice. “My goal was way more impressive than Dad’s. You see that move?”  
  
“I mean, barely. Where’s your showmanship?”  
  
Matt rolled his eyes, leading with his shoulder when he ran into Roland’s back. “Whatever. This mean I win, Uncle Will?”

“It wasn’t a breakaway,” Killian pointed out, and Matt groaned. “Although it was definitely a better goal.”  
  
Matt beamed. And, that time, Roland groaned.

“Hook, c’mon,” he sighed, but Killian just grinned at him and trash talk was kind of exhausting. “Alright, fine, anyone got any objections if I win us this game in the next ten minutes?”  
  
“Are you capable of that?” Matt asked.

Roland flipped him off. Which was impressive since he was still wearing gloves. “Shut up, Mattie. And I’m going five-hole on this one.”  
  
He did, in fact, go five-hole, not as much speed as anyone with Jones on the back of their jersey, but far more power and the goalie didn’t stand a chance, a lead with three minutes on the clock that Killian knew they wouldn’t surrender.

They won.

And his pads were back in his locker, the sign that had been hanging there carefully folded into the back pocket of his jeans with Matt half a step behind him, when Killian noticed a quick shift in the corner – something, something, cyclical.

Or tradition.  
  
The semantics didn’t matter.

Emma smiled when she took a step forward, the twenty on her back not  _his_ , but there was a ring hanging over the front of her shirt and a ring on her hand and the three kids who were all equally and collective disgusted by the inevitable make out in the hallway were proof positive that they’d done a pretty goddamn job at this whole  _living life_ thing.

“Unprecedented speed,” she muttered, not quite able to keep the laugh out of her voice. Killian didn’t know if Matt’s groan was because of that or the thirteen-year-old that slammed into his side, already talking a mile a minute about technique and that  _stick move_ and Peggy kept shaking her head.

“Impressed, Swan?”  
  
She shrugged, but he could still feel her smile when he ducked his head, and they both absolutely expected the fine-tuned shouts of  _gross_ around them. And neither one of them stopped kissing the other, hands on hips and fingers in hair and Emma’s feet weren’t entirely on the ground by the time Killian’s lungs started to protest the lack of oxygen in them.

“Maybe a little impressed,” she said. “But like, you know, only a little. Not as much finesse on your shot as others in the game.”

“Mom, if you’re only going to compliment me after you make out with Dad, I’m not sure I want your compliment,” Matt sighed.

“Yours might have been the better goal, MD,” Peggy added. “But, you know, winning tops everything or whatever the Jones motto is.”  
  
“It’s not that,” Killian promised, working a quiet  _eh_ out of Emma. “You’re a beacon of parental support, love.”  
  
“Put me down and then we can talk support.”  
  
Peggy stuck her tongue out.  
  
“Can we eat?” Chris whined. “I’m starving.”  
  
“You literally ate in the third period,” Emma said, a note of disbelief in her voice and Killian tried not to actually groan out loud when she shifted in his arms. He widened his eyes in warning though, and that might have been worse, particularly when Emma’s cheeks went that very specific shade of pink.

“This is honestly worse than getting checked,” Matt mumbled. He tugged on the back of Peggy’s shirt, trying to get her to move, or possibly run, away and Chris was still asking about food. “You want to split onion rings, Mar or you just going to stare longingly at Jeremy Humbert all night?”  
  
“Shut up, MD. I complimented you.”

“And then insulted me.”  
  
There were teetering very close to the edge of an argument, but there were more footsteps coming down the hall and Mary Margaret had a Tupperware container in her hand. She’d probably been handing out baked goods to the security guards.

“That’s absolutely what she was doing,” Emma said, grinning when Killian whispered  _mind reader_ against her hair.

“Did I miss the inevitable post-game makeout?” Mary Margaret asked.

“Reese’s,” Emma exclaimed, and Peggy had to use Matt as support when she started cackling.

“Barely,” he groused. “Mar, you can’t lean on me like that, Dad tried to kill me before.”  
  
“Thin ice, kid,” Killian muttered, but that only led to more laughter and even Chris forgot his impending starvation at that particular cliche.

Mary Margaret was doing a very bad job of not smiling. “I’m here to save you from Ruby,” she informed them. “Who is on several different warpaths and wants to know if you two are, and this is verbatim, done being the single most disgusting couple in the Tri-State area because she’s also as hungry as Chris and wants Killian to sign his jersey and--”  
  
“--Can’t get into our house without us there,” Emma finished.

“Yes, exactly that.”  
  
“Why’d she send you?”  
  
“Did you miss where she called you the single most disgusting couple in the Tri-State area? I think she was trying to do you a favor.”  
  
“Generous,” Matt chuckled, moving his arm around Chris’ shoulders to pull him towards baked goods and Mary Margaret just handed them the container. “And if you guys think Ru wouldn’t break into the house to make sure we all sign our jerseys, you’ve got another thing coming.”  
  
“She doesn’t know how to pick locks,” Killian promised, memories and something that might have been a smirk on his face. Emma blushed again.

“Anyway,” she said pointedly. “The jersey thing is my thing, so Rubes can back off. And we’re coming. God forbid anyone do anything in a normal amount of time on this team.”  
  
“I’m merely the messenger,” Mary Margaret said.  
  
“Yuh huh.”  
  
“Scouts honor. C’mon, Leo’s on FaceTime with David and is desperate to talk about Matt’s move on his goal.”

That was all it took for all three Jones kids, who weren’t really kids anymore if they wanted to get technical, to move, sprinting and shouting and trying to eat more cookies while doing both of those things, and Emma’s eyes were still distractingly green when Killian turned back towards her.

“Good game?” he asked, and she was nodding before he even finished the words.

“Always. And you’re way more distracting in uniform than you’ve ever been while wearing a tie. Just so we’re on the same page.”  
  
He laughed, a few more stolen kisses before someone  _else_ screamed for them, and Emma nipped at his lower lip. “That’s cheating,” Killian muttered, and she hummed in agreement.

“Yes, it is. It’s also cheating that I’ve already told Rubes I’m buying both yours and Mattie’s jerseys. So make sure you don’t mess up your signature.”  
  
He didn’t – even with Emma perched on his thigh and their kids nearby and it was better than any game day he could remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am consistently and constantly blown away by how much you guys enjoy this stupid hockey team. That is jerks to each other, but loves each other a lot and loves playing hockey a lot and will beat down in defense of each other at a moment's notice. There is...just a lot of hockey fic sitting in my docs. And as the season is in full-swing I'm down to write whatever, so if you've got ideas or prompts or questions send 'em my way. 
> 
> That 15-chapter, slightly angsty, in-season sequel probably coming around January. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com) if you're down.


	15. A Successful Line Change

The sound of the cab door slamming shut was impossibly loud, echoing in between Emma’s ears and making her flinch and jump and she didn’t think she imagined the way Killian winced at the whole, absurd, slightly over-the-top movement.

That might have also been because of her grip on his tie.

His goddamn metallic tie.

He schooled his features quickly, tongue darting between his lips and it was a little cautious and a little wary and that was almost worse than the cab door. And the cab driver still talking to them.

“You better keep scoring,” he said, and it sounded a bit like a hockey-based threat. Killian blinked.

Emma didn’t let go of his tie.

She was going to steal that tie. Probably not. That’d probably be incredibly weird and this shouldn’t have been weird, but she was flinching at doors and cab-driver demands and her heart refused to settle back into a normal, human rhythm after the whirlwind that was Casino Night. She hoped the small pile of clothes she’d been accumulating in Killian’s apartment were still there.

She absolutely knew they were still there.

They were probably folded.

Killian nodded at the driver, not bothering to pry Emma’s fingers away from his tie, but his hand did land on the curve of her hip and it should not have been that difficult to move away from the cab. “I’ll see what I can do about that,” he promised, voice low, but that sounded far too loud as well and maybe Emma should get her hearing checked.

She needed to remember to keep breathing.

That had proved exceptionally difficult in the backset – particularly with Killian’s hand drifting over the side of her dress and the bend of her elbow and she’d never taken her laces off. He hadn’t actually said anything about that.

She might have been waiting for that.

He was probably waiting for her.

_God_.

“The Sabres aren’t that good,” the driver continued, seemingly undeterred by whatever look was currently settling onto every inch of Killian’s face. His hand tightened slightly.

“True. But, you know...that’s why they play the game. Just have to approach each one like it’s--”  
  
“--Finally the year we’re going to win the Cup?”   
  
Killian’s eyebrows flew up his forehead, eyes widening enough that Emma was sure there was a sound associated with them too and maybe she was actually looking for the noise – like the usual hum of the city would ground her or calm her and she desperately wanted this car to leave. Quickly. As soon as goddamn possible.

She absolutely had not been holding her breath, was hoarding every single molecule of oxygen in her lungs if she was being honest, but they all seemed to rush out of her in a quick huff of something that sounded dangerously close to desperation and, possibly, an actual guffaw. Her shoulders shook when she laughed, exhaustion settling around her and in the center of her, and the whole night had been far from perfect, but she had high hopes for the next few hours and the rest of the season and--

“Definitely the year we’re going to win the Cup,” Emma said, twisting back towards a clearly surprised cab driver, sporting a Mets cap that had very obviously seen better days.

She couldn’t actually see Killian’s face, but she assumed his eyebrows got even higher, based solely on whatever noise _he_ made, and it was starting to get incredibly cold on those few inches of sidewalk they were occupying.

The driver’s lips twitched. “That so?”  
  
“You see that _Post_ back page?” Emma asked, and for someone who had wanted the car to leave so much just a few seconds earlier, she was doing a pretty fantastic job of prolonging the conversation. It probably had something to do with the state of Killian’s eyebrows. And his hand. Definitely his hand. “ _The New York Post_ would not lie about the winning tendencies of the New York Rangers. That unethical.”

Killian barely managed to contain his laugh, head falling onto Emma’s still slightly shaking shoulders and they all needed to be studied because it could not have been good for this driver’s lips to be quirking so much. “A paragon of journalism virtue,” Killian mumbled, mostly into Emma’s jacket.

She shivered.

And it didn’t have anything to do with the cold or the noise or the distinct absence of noise on Amsterdam Ave in the middle of the night. It must have been close to one in the morning

“Good word,” she said, leaning back to meet his gaze and she’d only been slightly right about the eyebrow thing. They were still halfway up his forehead, but she couldn’t spend that much time worrying about height or angles when his eyes were doing whatever they were doing, giving the few street lights on that block a run for their _glow-type_ money.

His tongue flashed between his lips again.

“Oh that’s not fair,” Emma muttered. Her breath hitched when she realized what she’d said, muscles tensing and her grip on Killian’s tie loosened slightly. The driver chuckled.

“I’m just saying,” he shrugged. “Cap’s on that streak and the lady’s right, the headline was true, maybe a little more hype than you guys deserve at this point in the season, but--”  
  
“--They could make a run at the President’s,” Emma interrupted, voice turning sharp and just a little defensive and she was briefly concerned Killian’s eyes were going to fall out right there.

That would have been disappointing.

“Swan,” he started, but she shook her head and Regina was going to kill both of them. It would be a miracle if this didn’t end up somewhere. She got the very distinct impression this cab driver liked to gossip.

Or talk to _The New York Post_.

“If Cap keeps scoring like he is,” the driver said evenly. Emma tilted her head, waiting for the rest of the demands and qualifiers, but none of them came and she swore she could almost feel the tension falling out of her muscles.

It landed silently at her feet.

Because it was not a real thing.

She’d clearly gone insane. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do if her shirts were still folded on the top shelf of Killian’s closet.

Probably jump him.

Or something less aggressive. There was, after all, a point streak to preserve.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Killian said, a note of finality to his voice. There was more lip movement – some of it came when Killian’s lips landed on the top of Emma’s hair. It was going to take days to get all those bobby pins out of her hair.

She hadn’t even thought about the bobby pins. And, just like that, the tension was back and a few nerves and she could barely make out the sounds her stomach was making. She’d never actually eaten.

She’d had a copious amount of champagne. Ah, shit, maybe she was kind of drunk.

That would, at least, explain the slight sway she couldn’t seem to shake.

The driver nodded once, the brim of his hat falling forward. “Buffalo isn’t good,” he said again, but that time it sounded a bit more like advice. “And they’re shit on the PK. You guys draw a couple good penalties, get that young kid to lose his head and start slashing at ankles, and you’ll roll when you’re out there. When are you out there?”  
  
“Two days from now.”   
  
“Right, right. A roll. It’ll probably embarrass them.”   
  
“Ah, well why else do we play the game?”

Emma didn’t miss the sarcasm in Killian’s voice – couldn’t, honestly, felt like it reached out and slapped her and then made the wind blow a little harder, just to prove a point – and his hand flatted against her, palm pressing into the fabric of her dress. It’d probably leave bead-shaped divots in his skin, but he didn’t seem to mind, seemed intent on that happening, like he was trying to make sure she was still there or would be there or several other tenses, particularly when strangers in cabs were providing unsolicited scouting reports regarding one of the worst teams in the league.

Regina was going to kill them both. Loudly.

Emma ignored that thought, focusing instead on the solid weight that was Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers and current owner of one of the most impressive point streaks in the NHL. Because of her. He was scoring because of her.

She moved her hand on top of his.

“They’re going to win in Buffalo,” Emma said, a guarantee and maybe that belief Mary Margaret had been talking about before, and Killian’s head audibly snapped towards her. The expression was a bit more surprised now, and she wished it wasn’t, but Emma figured she deserved that and maybe the champagne actually hadn’t made her feel drunk.

Maybe it was just everything else.

She was definitely going insane.

Killian kissed the top of her hair again.

“And,” Emma added. “Seriously, don’t count out the President’s Trophy.”  
  
The driver knocked his hat back, a flash of white and a smile and crinkles around his eyes. “Good,” he said simply. “You can’t touch it, if you win, y’know, Cap.”   
  
“I know the rules,” Killian muttered.

“Good.”

The car seemed to rev to life when it drove off, stopping just a few feet away when the nearest light turned red and Emma resolutely refused to believe that was some kind of weird sign from the universe.

She didn’t move at first, didn’t entirely trust her feet or her balance in the heels she was seriously considering burning at that point, but it didn’t matter because Killian’s hand was still on her hip and he must not have had as much champagne.

Absolutely insane.

“You know,” Killian said lightly, and Emma’s eyes widened on instinct and feeling and whatever the hell her stomach kept doing. “Eventually we’ve got to get into a cab with a normal driver who doesn’t have several scathing opinions on the state of my game.”  
  
“I think he had several scathing opinions on the state of the entire team, actually. And he’s kind of right about Buffalo. God awful on the PK. It’s like watching a high school team.”   
  
Killian let out a low whistle, the noise evolving into a laugh and a smile and his own crinkles around his eyes. They did something very specific to Emma’s pulse.

Her stomach growled again.

“Oh my God,” Emma mumbled, huffing out a burst of frustration and she couldn't stomp her foot. There were half a dozen blisters on her feet. “Ignore that. And just...everything that has happened in the last five minutes.”  
  
“So you don’t think that we’re going to make a run at the President’s Trophy? Or win a Cup?”   
  
“Aw, c'mon.”   
  
“That’s not an answer to the question.”   
  
Emma clicked her tongue, but she was also impossibly charmed by it, always and constantly, and she hoped he knew that. She knew he didn’t. Or hadn’t – for the last few weeks. God, what an absolute and utter disaster.

“Swan,” Killian said softly, but she heard it perfectly and wanted to hear it on some kind of perpetual loop and maybe she could just leave her dress at his apartment. She didn’t have that much closet space at David and Mary Margaret’s.

“Obviously.”  
  
“What?”   
  
“Obviously,” Emma repeated. “In both things. Like...a lot. I mean, that’s kind of a lame way of putting it, but we’ve already covered how sweeping speeches are way more your thing and not mine and I’m still kind of testing out this whole hope thing. But, um...if anyone can do it, then I think you can and you’re totally going to embarrass Buffalo in two days and--”

She ran out of air. That was incredibly disappointing.

It’d probably be weird if she took her heels off there. She could at least wait until they were in the apartment. So she could also steal some socks.

Emma swallowed, licking her lips and her hair had started falling in her eyes. The wind on Manhattan cross-streets was absurd. “It’s very quiet up here,” she murmured.

“I think that’s because it’s late.”  
  
“Yeah, that makes a lot of sense, actually.”

Killian’s smile moved across his face slowly, not as cautious as it had been and Emma hoped it wouldn’t ever be that again because she wanted this and them and some collective prepositions that ended with absolutely crazy and decidedly opinionated cab drivers. “You know there’s not actually any…” he started again, cutting himself off when his teeth dug into his lower lip and Emma’s eyes narrowed in confusion.

And worry.

She wished her brain could settle on one emotion.

“Not any what?” Emma prompted. She reached back up, fingers twisting around his tie again and tugging slightly, drawing a soft scoff and a look that was _almost_ a smirk. Her muscles were not going to be able to stand up to a full night of this – twisting and tensing and, possibly, melting straight off her bones.

She could not think when he looked at her like that.

And that felt more important than anything.

Even more than how absolutely atrocious Buffalo was on the PK.

“I don’t want…” Killian said slowly, like he was taking his time on every syllable and Emma knew he was absolutely terrified of what one syllable would do to her fight or flight syndrome. He swallowed, shifting his weight between his feet and staring at her with a look that was equal parts overwhelming and exciting and Emma hoped her lungs didn’t actually collapse under the weight of it all.

“Don’t want?”  
  
“I don’t want you to be worried, Emma. Of...well, anything sounds kind of absurd and that’s--”   
  
She cut him off, ignoring the pain in her feet when she pushed up on her toes and Killian didn’t quite gasp against her mouth, but it was pretty damn close, and Emma would probably think about that sound several times a week for the foreseeable future.

Or, maybe, the rest of their goddamn lives.

They’d get to that point eventually. Maybe. She hoped.

_Hope. Hope. Hope._

It took, by her admittedly distracted count, less than a full second for Killian to react, both arms tight around her waist as he tried to tug her closer or further up and Emma’s hair was in danger of coming completely undone right there. They didn’t move much, but her fingers carded through his hair, nails scratching lightly against skin until she got him to make _that_ sound and her heart sputtered against her rib cage.

It all felt a bit like turning around or switching on or some other vaguely electrical-type pun, like falling back into _everything_ and then some, a certainty to it all that was as easy as breathing. In theory. Emma wasn’t really breathing that much.

She closed her eyes, opening her mouth when Killian’s tongue traced across her bottom lip and the shudder that moved through every inch of her had absolutely nothing to to do with the temperature or the tiny bits of snow landing on his jacket.

He laughed.

And, really, it didn’t surprise her, but she’d been walking on a tightrope and eggshells and shards of broken glass if the feeling in her feet was any indication, a mess of emotions and wants and _missing him_ that left her feeling as if there was a hole in the center of everything, so, in the grand scheme, she should have expected the laugh.

It echoed around them, soft and easy and just a hint joyful, like he’d felt the same exact way – despite the point streak and snappy, slightly over-the-top headlines.

“You know,” Emma mumbled against his mouth, and her feet weren’t entirely touching the ground anymore. “Laughing in the middle of reunion-type makeouts is generally frowned upon.”

“I’m not laughing at you, love.”  
  
“No?”   
  
“No,” Killian echoed. He brushed his lips over hers again, somehow managing to move his fingers under the edge of her jacket and that was several different brands of cheating. And he groaned when her hips canted up. “Swan,” he warned, but it was definitely closer to one thirty now, and the sidewalk was more or less deserted.

It was snowing.

Emma was willing to take _that_ as a sign from the universe.

“And,” he added, a full-blown smirk that deserved five minutes in some metaphorical penalty box. “I think we already did the reunion-type makeouts, don’t you?”  
  
“Are you putting a limit on reunion-type makeouts?”

He laughed again, and if they didn’t stop kissing in the middle of that sidewalk, they were going to get frostbite. “Never,” he said, and that sounded like a promise too. “But you were the one jumping at cab doors, love.”

Emma grimaced, a noise in the back of her throat that wasn’t a disagreement. It couldn’t be. She did. She jumped. And it probably led to even more blisters. She needed to stop thinking about blisters in the middle of making out.

“Yeah, I know,” she sighed. “But that’s not...ah, you know, eventually I’m going to get better at sweeping and you’re going to be crazy impressed.”  
  
“That seems to suggest I’m not crazy impressed already.”   
  
“Oh that was charming.”   
  
“That was definitely the point. What are you thinking, Swan?”   
  
She didn’t really consider her answer, was far too _gone_ for this and them and those collective prepositions to be worried about overstepping some line and she absolutely believed they could make a run at the President’s Trophy. And win the goddamn Stanley Cup.

Especially that second one.

Emma Swan believed, and she was going to make sure her very attractive boyfriend, with a tie seemingly meant to be tugged on, knew it – more than anything.  “I’m not all that interested in...not being here.”  
  
“Those double negatives.”   
  
“Could you not keep up?”   
  
“Be more specific, Swan.”   
  
She hummed, fingers still moving through the hair at the nape of his neck and his eyes fluttering shut left her feeling oddly powerful. And loved. Especially loved. God, she was a sap. “I trust you,” Emma said, well aware that she was rehashing and repeating, but she needed to do both, even with a small pile of snow in her hair. “And, I...you could have said anything and I would have believed you and want to believe you and I don’t want to be worried either. I, um, I missed you. A lot. Like. I think I owe Merida that same life debt you have to give to Ariel because I’ve just kind been walking around in some fog thing and, well...I trust you. And in you. Is that weird?”   
  
Killian laughed again, smile wide and eyes impossibly blue and Emma was almost read for the emotion as soon as his mouth landed on hers again. Almost. They were exceptionally good at reunion-type makeouts.

That didn’t really surprise her either.

“That’s not weird, love,” he said, barely any space between them and his hair threatening to work its way into her eyes. “That’s...everything.”  
  
“Not nearly as eloquent as you normally are.”   
  
“As you so helpfully pointed out, I made my sweeping speeches earlier. And I think you were doing a pretty good job of picking up my slack, as it were.”   
  
“Like a team.”

Those words seemed to fall out of her too, honest and open and several other adjectives Emma Swan, professional loner and community relations director, had never allowed herself to be, but it was snowing and Killian kept staring at her and scoring all those goals. The Rangers kept winning. That might have been the best sign.

At least the most obvious one.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Exactly like that.”

“I’m not going to jump at any other cab doors.”  
  
“No?”

He didn’t quite whisper the question, but it was awfully close and Emma’s pulse thudded – all hope and want and how much she knew, in the depth of her entire goddamn being, he missed her right back. She pulled back slowly moving her fingers out of his hair and appreciating the soft whine he let out at that, thumb brushing over the hint of bruise just under his eye.

He didn’t flinch.

That felt important.

That felt like everything.

Emma was going to take her shoes off as soon as they walked inside.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, and she was never sure how he did it. In the weeks and games and months that followed, every up and down and decidedly impressive goal, she was never sure how he managed to keep one arm around her waist, the other moving towards her fingers and her slightly curious thumb, wrapping around her wrist to pull back towards his mouth. His lips were cool against her skin, measured movements that felt a bit like emotional brands and making up for lost time and Emma didn’t even try to swallow down the sudden feelings taking up residence in the back of her throat.

She didn’t blink, couldn’t begin to imagine anything except staring at Killian while he moved across the bend of her knuckles and the veins on the back of her palm, the slight twist to her wrist and just above the laces that had seen their fair share of wear and tear over the last few weeks. She felt his smile before she saw it.

Her stomach growled again.

Killian chuckled against her skin, leaving goosebumps in his wake and the amusement was obvious as soon as his gaze flashed back up towards her. Emma rolled her eyes.

“Don’t,” she groaned.

“When’s the last time you ate, love?”  
  
“If I tell you that I genuinely can’t remember, you going to lose your mind?”   
  
He shook his head. “No. Maybe express some real and genuine concern over your daily caloric intake, but--”   
  
“--Oh my God,” Emma sighed. “I’m not a professional hockey player. I do not have a daily caloric intake I need to be worried about.”   
  
“You are a human. Everyone has a daily caloric intake they need to be worried about. And, like, fruits and vegetables. When’s the last time you ate a fruit?”   
  
“Shut up.”   
  
“That’s not an answer.”   
  
“You are ruining the romance of this. C’mon, let’s start making out again.”   
  
“Swan.”   
  
Emma clicked her teeth, a distinct lack of frustration and almost alarming amount of charm, and she couldn’t actually swat at his shoulders when his fingers were still wrapped around her wrist. “I’m pretty positive there were strawberries in that one thing by the craps tables. What were they?”   
  
“Swan, this was your event. Do you not know the dessert menu?”   
  
“You expect me to have the dessert menu memorized? That’s ridiculous. And I did have some other things on my mind.” Killian pursed his lips, eyes flickering back towards his shoes and Emma hadn’t actually ever gotten back on the ground completely. She took a deep breath. “Strawberry shortcake...cupcakes?” she asked, well aware he didn’t know the answer and maybe they could find a 24-hour Chinese place somewhere. In, like, a five block radius. She wasn’t going to walk more than five blocks. “Whatever they were, Mer handed me one before we opened the silent auction and there were definitely seeds involved, so that’s basically a health food.”   
  
“Basically,” Killian repeated, but the pinch between his eyebrows had disappeared and maybe Emma was doing a good job of being charming as well.

“I’m not eating fruit right now. So, just...cross that off the list.”  
  
“Is there a list?”   
  
“Is there not?”   
  
He hummed, a quick kiss and shift of his hand and Emma swore she could feel the heat of him settle into the pit of her stomach. That wasn’t nearly as strange a thought as it probably should have been. “That’s more your track than mine, Swan,” Killian said. “But it’d be rude to let you starve when you’re here.”

And she heard the words for what they were  – an invitation and a hope and that same want that Emma assumed was just part of her natural state of being now. She nodded.

“Definitely rude.”  
  
“Let’s find some food then.”

That, however, proved impossible. Apparently. At least at, nearly, two in the morning on the Upper West Side.

“Why don’t you live somewhere with more readily available food?” Emma sighed, leaning against the building behind her and it really wasn’t fair when she was met with a smirk.

“I refuse to take responsibility for my neighborhood’s culinary shortcomings.”

She couldn’t quite stop her laugh – still tired and overworked and as hungry as ever, but that smirk really was _something_ and neither one of them had said anything about her laces. Still. They needed to be inside for that.

“Yeah, that’s fair,” Emma admitted begrudgingly. “I can’t believe there’s actually a McDonald’s in this city that isn’t open all the time. I feel like we’ve stumbled onto a fast food unicorn.”  
  
“I don’t know that I’d go so far as to call it that. And the McDonald’s was a serious last resort.”   
  
“Only because you’re also a food snob.”   
  
“And someone who needs to keep scoring goals at the professional level,” Killian added. “I’m not sure fast food is conducive to that.”   
  
“You keep using all these fancy words and you’re definitely going to get me to swoon right on whatever street we’re on.”   
  
He grinned. That was also incredibly distracting. And attractive. Incredibly attractive. “Halfway between 69th and 70th.”   
  
“How’d we only get halfway?”   
  
“You announced you wouldn’t go any farther.”   
  
Emma nodded, recent memories returning and she might have crooked her finger or just made another noise, but she didn’t really care what happened when her eyes were starting to close on their own and Killian moved into her space without any actual direction. “I’m definitely trying to get you to swoon,” he admitted.

“It’s working. It’d work better if I wasn’t so hungry.”  
  
“Ah, that’s disappointing.”   
  
“Aren’t you hungry?”   
  
“Starved.”   
  
“Then we seem to be at some kind of impasse,” Emma muttered, twisting a finger through the nearest belt loop she could find. Killian groaned.   
“What about Rite Aid?”   
  
“Excuse me?”   
  
“Rite Aid. Or Duane Reade. I’m not going to be specific.”   
  
Killian narrowed his eyes, head tilted and hair falling across his brow and the emotional whiplash of the conversation was exhausting. That may have also been the time, but Emma didn’t care and--”Are you speaking in tongues now, love?”   
  
“Is that a Rite Aid at the end of the block or not?”

He leaned around her, and Emma was going to dislocate her wrist if she kept her fingers twisted in his belt, but there was not enough space to move and she wasn’t sure what she would do fi she did move and--”Yeah,” Killian answered. “Where are you going with this?”  
  
“They have food at Rite Aid. Like grocery stuff.”   
  
“Are you kidding me?”   
  
“Are you getting uppity about Rite Aid grocery food?”   
  
“I mean, a little,” he admitted. “I was pretty all in on this making you swoon thing and I feel like ending Casino Night with middle-of-the-night groceries from Rite Aid leaves a little to be desired. What could they possibly have?”   
  
“You know I’m really, really good at making rice in the microwave?”   
  
“What?”   
  
Emma nodded. “It’s my greatest culinary talent. Well, that and microwave popcorn that also includes candy. Oh, you think they still have Valentine’s Day candy there?”   
  
“Swan, we talked about this. Caloric intake and goals and--”   
  
“--And I’m guaranteeing two points from you in Buffalo. Screen the net and they’re not going to be able to stop you. Your wrists are way too quick.”

He didn’t blink. And, honestly, that was only kind of disarming, but it was also kind of nice and that word was far too small for what it actually was, but Emma was dangerously close to falling asleep midway between 69th and 70th Street and she knew they’d still have Valentine’s Day candy at Rite Aid.

“That sounds awfully certain, love,” Killian muttered.

“I’d be willing to fight several different cabbies for your on-ice honor in Buffalo.”  
  
“I think they’re unionized. That makes it a little harder.”   
  
“And I’m totally going to buy half a dozen of those peanut-butter filled hearts. Do they make those?”   
  
He kissed her – not quite bruising, but _almost_ and maybe a little desperate and the snow was starting to stick to the ground. “They do,” Killian said, another string of letters that sounded like a promise and settled into Emma’s soul or something equally absurd.

She was totally going to leave her dress at his apartment.

There was almost _too_ much candy in the seasonal, on-sale aisle at Rite Aid and Emma swiped her forearm across the shelf, ignoring whatever sound Killian made at _that_ , but he also bought several oranges from the cooler at the front of aisle ten and they were the only customers in the entire store.

They walked down every aisle that even considered having food in it – grabbing boxes and bags and Swiss Miss hot chocolate. Killian had to go down three different aisles before he found cinnamon, but he flashed her a smile as soon as he tossed it in the basket she was holding and they bought five different flavors of boxed rice.

And there were more kisses, less reunion and more _normal_ , the clerk’s eyes widening behind the counter because Killian was wearing a tux and Emma was kind of limping in her heels and, well, they bought five different flavors of boxed rice.

Killian resolutely refused to let her use the microwave to make the rice.

“There are stovetop instructions on the back, Swan,” he said, brandishing a box of broccoli-cheddar like that proved his point.

Emma took an exaggerated bite of peanut-butter filled heart. “That takes longer.”  
  
“It’ll probably make it better.”   
  
“Wow, just throwing out some scathing opinions on my ability to make rice, huh?”   
  
“Microwave rice is unnatural.”   
  
“You’re a food snob.”   
  
He shook his head, peppering her face with kisses and lingering just on the edge of her mouth, teasing in the best kind of way – even when the microwave dinged with freshly popped popcorn and there was no way they would be able to eat all of the food they’d bought. It was after three in the morning.

“You think we can combine the broccoli cheddar and the four cheese one?” Emma asked, hopping onto the edge of the counter and kicking her feet out.

Killian moved between her legs.

Neither one of them took the popcorn out of the microwave.

“I think it’d be a culinary crime not to do just that, love.”

They ate on the floor – bowls and Tupperware containers strewn around them with several different forks sticking out of several different piles of over-flavored rice, and Emma’s hot chocolate didn’t really go with any of it, but Killian refused to use the microwave for that either and the whole thing felt as domestic as anything in the history of everything.

“Mixing was definitely a good idea,” Killian said through a mouthful of rice, and Emma couldn’t mask her smile over the top of her Rangers-branded coffee mug.

“You better eat the garden vegetable one. That was your idea too.” He scrunched his nose, fork frozen halfway between the bowl balanced on his thigh and his mouth, and Emma nearly dropped the hot chocolate. “You’re a great big, giant, rice hypocrite, you know that?” she asked, not quite able to make it sound like an insult.

She’d taken her dress off while the rice did whatever it did on the stovetop – and she’d been right about her shirts and several pairs of team-branded shorts. They were sitting in a perfectly folded pile in the closet. She hadn’t moved them. She grabbed a different t-shirt instead, far too big for her and clearly old and it wasn’t blue. It was maroon.

The number, however, was the same.

And Emma would have been lying if she said she didn’t do it entirely for the reaction, Killian’s eyes widening and mouth dropping slightly and the fabric brushed over the top of her thighs when she sat down.

Killian hummed, moving the bowl out of harm’s way when he shifted back onto his knees, and it was going to be a very real miracle if either of them made it to the Garden by noon the next day. Later that day. It was very much morning.

And Emma was wearing a Minnesota t-shirt.

“I think that’s the most intense insult I’ve ever received,” Killian chuckled, tucking a stray strand of hair behind Emma’s ear.

“Unionized cab workers not withstanding.”  
  
“Ah, he wasn’t exactly insulting. Just demanding. And you were rather defensive, love.”   
  
“Seems to fly in the face of your suggestion that I was insulting, doesn’t it?” Emma asked, but the question came out far more breathless than she wanted when he ducked his head. “God, you’ve got to at least let me move the hot chocolate. This is going to get absurd otherwise.”   
  
“Yeah, let’s not let it get absurd.”   
  
Emma opened her mouth, certain there was some kind of possibly charming, slightly sarcastic retort sitting on the tip of her tongue, but she forgot most of the words in the English language as soon as Killian’s lips dragged across the side of her neck and his hand found its way back to her laces.

Again.

“You’re, uh…” Emma started, the words catching in her throat and Killian’s answering laugh was as absurd as anything that had happened that night. “God, that’s--”  
  
“--Not very articulate, Swan.”   
  
“You can’t just throw back my sentences from before.”   
  
“Recycling.”   
  
“Jeez.”   
  
He laughed again, nipping at her collarbone and Emma wasn’t sure what noise she made, but it might have been a groan or just the general acceptance that they were, inevitably, going to start making out on the floor. That thought, however, only lasted until she met Killian’s eyes, gaze heavy and tracing across her face and--

“I can’t believe you found this shirt,” he whispered. He tugged lightly on the fabric, like he was nervous it was going to rip apart in his hands and there was a metaphor there. It got louder when his eyes darted towards her wrist.

Again.

_Again. Again. Again. Again._

“I didn’t want to,” Emma said, answering a question he hadn’t actually asked or couldn’t ask or wouldn’t ask and none of the qualifiers mattered. “I thought about it. Was...furious and disappointed and I...ok, so I’m not...relationships are not my thing. I don’t...Neal was a dick and still is and tried to get me to think you were halfway to LA already during the Break, but, um...well, I always wanted that.

I’ve watched Reese’s and David be some kind of disgustingly in love stereotype for years, and I’m...I wasn’t sure the world worked that way for me, but then I got to Los Angeles and I was so...alone. I’ve never really felt like that. Even after everything. It was, well, it was so goddamn depressing.”

Emma let out a hollow laugh, watching for some kind of movement on Killian’s face or the hint that he wasn’t absolutely interested in anything she was saying, and nothing changed. She knew it wouldn’t.

“Anyway,” she continued. “I walked into the Starbucks and Walsh was there and we started talking and it was good. He was nice and curious about the team and interested in the team and he thought it was really impressive that I had so much access. I guess I should have realized that was kind of weird, but I was just...I wanted someone. To talk to. Or be there.”  
  
“Was he?” Killian asked, voice low and gruff and as interested as Emma had always wanted someone to be.

She nodded. “At the start. He asked about the team and talked strategy and personnel and what I thought they could be doing better.”  
  
“But?”   
  
“But uh...he wanted a lot. He wanted to get into games and the team suite and meet players. He started talking about all these big, crazy life things.”   
  
Killian tilted his head, thumb moving against her wrist and Emma wasn’t sure he even realized. “What kind of life things?”   
  
“We’d only been together a couple of months, but he wanted to make things serious, started talking about moving into my apartment and using the word _joint_ a lot and how he’d always been waiting for something like this.” Emma sighed at the memory, and Killian’s thumb didn’t stop, but it got a little more intent and he kind of looked like he wanted to check something. She moved the nearest bowl of rice out of the way. “He’d always been pretty vocal,” she muttered. “Declarations from the get and promises that he didn’t need to hear anything back, but then that changed when it became kind of clear I was...shit, retreating sounds like a horrible word.”   
  
“And he sounds like a complete dick, Swan. I don’t think retreat is a bad thing.”

“That’s a rather strong opinion for a guy you don’t know.”  
  
“I know you. Rather well, in fact.”   
  
Emma blinked. And swore her heart swelled. “Yeah,” she said. “You do.”   
  
“So?”   
  
“So, he started proclaiming things, announcing plans and how much he wanted to _commit_ himself to the relationship. That’s not what it was at all. He wanted all-access to the Kings locker room and the fan blog he ran.”   
  
“He ran a fan blog?”

“Asshole, right?”  
  
“And getting worse by the minute.”   
  
Emma laughed, twisting her hair around her free finger. “Hold that thought. So, uh, he starts making proclamations and I’m me, so...I freak. I tell him I want to break up and don’t think this is a good idea and absolutely cannot get him an exclusive with the Kings coach and he doesn’t take it all that well.”   
  
Killian’s jaw tensed.

“He started telling me all this shit,” Emma said, voice dropping low when it started to shake and his thumb worked its way under her laces, fingers lacing with her. He held on. She held on. They held onto each other. “That I never trusted him and never wanted to and it was all a front, that I’d lied to him from the very beginning and--”  
  
She exhaled, blinking back tears that did not belong on a living room floor covered in bowls of rice. Killian ducked his head, working his way back into her eye line, and he didn’t pull his hand away from hers. He squeezed tighter.

“What, Swan?”  
  
“He told me that I was impossible to love,” she whispered. “That...that I’d be alone because that was what I made happen. And then he was gone.”   
The words, quiet admissions with tears despite Emma’s best efforts, hung in the air around them, heavy and awkward and it probably ruined the taste of every single grain of rice – even the exceptionally cheesy ones.

Emma sighed, eyes falling closed and she needed to take the bobby pins out of her hair. They were starting to give her a headache. She tried to pull her hand away, ready to brush off the moment and beg for a few hours of sleep, but Killian’s grip tightened again and she might have gasped.

She definitely gasped.

“What..” she started, but he shook his head deftly and she closed her mouth so quickly, she nearly bit her tongue in half.

“That’s not true,” Killian said. “You know that, right?”

Emma nodded, another bit of hope that would probably make Mary Margaret proud and she’d never told Mary Margaret about that. She’d never told anyone that.

That felt like the biggest sign.

It probably had sound effects and neon lighting.

“It’s not,” Killian continued. “That’s...it’s been the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”  
  
“What has?”

“Loving you has been the easiest thing I’ve ever done. Like I...like learning how to skate or breathing or like I’d been waiting for it forever.” He smiled, the ends of his lips ticking up into a look Emma wanted to covet and hold onto for the rest of _forever_ and his fingers didn’t shake when he held his hand up, ghosting over the curve of her jaw and behind her ear, tracing a path she was certain he could see or feel and she tried not to breathe too loudly.

“Did you just compare me to learning how to skate?” Emma asked, and Killian’s exhale was a laugh and happiness and she was ready for the kiss. She was. She sighed into it anyway, trying to breathe him in and keep him there and it was easy.

They were easy.

In the best kind of way.

“I’m kind of tired,” he mumbled. “I’m going to blame that on the lack of romance.”  
  
“Nah, an appropriate amount of romance. Totally swooning.”   
  
“I love you.”   
  
“Still swooning.”   
  
“Swan.”   
  
Emma might have actually giggled, another kiss that lingered and she was having a difficult time remembering what way was up when Killian’s shoulders pushed against hers and--”I didn’t take them off because you were, _are_ , all of that,” she said quickly, still trying to rush over the words and the feelings and eventually she’d fix that. Maybe after she got the bobby pins out of her hair. “There and someone to talk to and someone to care and it’s...I love you too, and I’m probably not as good at skating as you, but, uh, the metaphor still stands.”

“Probably not?”  
  
“Don’t get overconfident now, Jones.”   
  
He made a noise, an agreement or exhaustion, standing up and Emma didn’t think before she took his outstretched hand. “It’s definitely the shirt’s fault.”

“Ah, yeah, that’s fair.”  
  
“Two points in Buffalo?”   
  
“And screening the net.”   
  
“That seems doable.”   
  
“I think so.”   
  
Killian grinned. “Me too. C’mon, love, if you sit on the edge of the bed I can get the pins out of your hair.”

And, really, she wasn’t surprised, was probably, almost, entirely, ready for it, but he hadn’t really asked, just said it was happening and Emma _believed_ , the soft patter of bobby pins falling on the nearby nightstand a quiet metronome that, eventually, helped lull her to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So technically this is part of [The Let’s All Be Good People Prompt-a-Thon & Follower Giveaway](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/post/176674973290/the-lets-all-be-good-people-prompt-a-thon) but it was a Blue Line request, so it went in this collection. As always, I can't thank you guys enough for caring about this team (which has won four games in a row in real life!) and sending me questions and asks and prompts about this ridiculous hockey universe. It's the nicest. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down where I'm also taking [KISS PROMPTS](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/post/178932047980/fictional-kiss-prompts) because I need to be writing at all times.


	16. A Few Days Off for Christmas, Part One

“What is the wind chill, right now?”  
  
Emma lifted her head, the muscles in her neck protesting at the movement and _God_ she was exhausted. The bags underneath her eyes had bags. And then those bags probably checked some luggage.

Or something.

She was too tired to think about appropriate metaphors.

Killian wasn’t much better, there were deep purple circles under his eyes and a distinct slouch to his shoulders that had nothing to do with how hard he’d been hit into the boards the week before and, well, maybe it did actually.

It wasn’t easy to avoid checks when you’d been awake for the last twenty-seven hours.

“What are you saying to me right now?” Emma asked, mumbling out the words and it wasn’t easy to sit up straight when a nearly three-month-old child was grabbing at anything that moved. At the moment it was her hair.

She didn’t have the energy to try and pull Matt’s hand away.

Killian didn’t exactly smile, but his lips definitely moved and his eyebrows shifted slightly and this was going to be a disaster. The wind chill was probably negative three thousand.

“How cold do you think it is?” Killian mumbled, leaning against the wall and wincing when his shoulder hit the wrong way. The frames hanging there shook with the force of a professional hockey player colliding with them and Emma squeezed her eyes closed when one of them crashed to the ground.

Matt started crying.

An absolute disaster.

“Cold,” Emma answered distractedly, twisting in the corner of the couch and pulling fingers away from the ends of her hair. She needed to wash her hair. Or shower. Or maybe reconsider going downtown entirely and no one really said that having a baby in the middle of a hockey season was going to be quite so challenging.

Road trips were some kind of torture device - Emma was convinced. Mary Margaret and Ruby had done the best they could to help and David was half a moment away from offering to move in during the western swing the week before, but Emma was _Emma_ and stubborn and determined and she was so tired she could hardly see straight.

And Killian had gotten back late the night before, the front door creaking when he swung it open to find Emma draped over the couch and Matt’s bassinet a few feet away and he hadn’t tried to move them. He’d just mumbled _move over Swan_ and tugged off his league-mandated jacket and they’d gotten, approximately, forty-five minutes of sleep before Matt woke up.

Crying.

There was a lot of crying.

“Oh shit,” Killian mumbled, dropping down to try and push the broken fragments of glass towards him and Emma made some unintelligible noise in the back of her throat. He snapped his head up at the sound – and Matt was practically sobbing now and they were never going to get downtown.

They were going to ruin Mrs. Vankald’s Christmas schedule.

“C’mon Mattie, deep breaths,” Emma muttered, standing up and bouncing on the balls of her feet and the infant in her arms had absolutely no concept of his lung capacity. “Or, you know, maybe average-sized breaths.”  
  
Killian snorted and he was still crouched on the ground, but he’d given up trying to move glass with his bare hands so Emma counted that as some sort of victory.

“Average-sized breaths seems like a reasonable request,” Killian said, glancing up at Emma and the not-quite-smile was almost somewhere in the realm of a grin.

Emma widened her eyes meaningfully, still moving like she was in the middle of some weird dance where the right steps would, suddenly, make their kid stop crying. “That’s what I’m saying,” she said. “You know if you cut your hand apart right now several different people are going to line up to try and murder you.”  
  
“Merry Christmas.”

“Nothing says holiday spirit like screaming infants and murder.”  
  
“I think that’s exactly what _A Christmas Carol_ is about, love.”   
  
She couldn’t really laugh, far too tired to even consider making a sound that wasn’t, maybe snoring, but Emma could feel the smile on her face.  Killian stood up slowly, trying not to actually step on the broken shards of glass covering the living room floor. Emma lifted her eyebrows when she noticed he wasn’t wearing socks or pants for that matter – just team-branded gym shorts and a team-branded t-shirt with his hair pushed up in, at least, six different directions, like he couldn’t stop running his hands through it.

“I don’t know what movie you’re watching,” Emma murmured. “But I don’t think that’s how that goes at all. No one is getting murdered.”  
  
Killian twisted his mouth, one hand falling on her hip and the other on Matt’s back and that did something very specific to Emma’s exhausted brain. They should really do something about the glass on their floor.

“He falls in the grave,” Killian argued. He was making faces at Matt and Emma was almost entirely positive he didn’t realize he was doing it. She hadn’t gotten enough sleep for that. Maybe they could just…

No, that wouldn’t work at all.

There was a car coming and several bags already packed and more diapers than Emma could even begin to imagine stuffed in another bag just _in case_ Mr. and Mrs. Vankald forgot to stockpile them in the brownstone. They had to go.

It was Christmas.

There were traditions and she still couldn’t really drink spiked eggnog, but Emma had an air hockey title to defend for the third straight year and, maybe, the bread pudding would be edible.

And, some obnoxious, exhausted voice in the back of her head added Elsa and Liam had managed to get a few-weeks-old Lizzie across the country and hadn’t ever missed a single Vankald family tradition and Emma was nothing if not strangely and aggressively competitive.

Merry Christmas to all, indeed.

“Wait, who are we talking about?” Emma asked. Matt had stopped crying – whatever Killian was doing with his face and whatever she was doing on the tips of her toes, somehow, working and she really should shower.

“Ebenezer Scrooge. He falls in the grave at the end and the ghost of Christmas present stands over him and laughs.”  
  
“That’s not even close to what happens.”   
  
“Swan, that is exactly what happens.”   
  
“The Ghost of Christmas present does not make noise. That’s why he’s so freaky.”   
  
“Did Dickens actually use the word _freaky_ in the original text, you think?”   
  
Emma scowled at him, half a second away from sticking her tongue out and Matt wasn’t quite as interested in her hair anymore, suddenly far more occupied with the chain around her neck. She was going to choke before the car even showed up.

“Ah, kid,” Killian exclaimed, and there wasn’t enough space between them that he could actually lunge forward, but he certainly made the effort. “Let’s not kill your mom on Christmas Eve, huh?”  
  
He tugged Matt’s fingers away from the chain and Emma briefly considered all the reasons she should absolutely take it off, but the thought made her heart sputter and her stomach clench and if a whole slew of doctors in a nationally accredited hospital couldn't get her to take off a Stanley Cup championship ring while she was _giving birth_ then she hardly thought the threat of death, Christmas related or otherwise, would change her mind.

“We’ll just have to settle for death on New Year’s,” Emma said softly, resting her hand on top of Killian’s and tracing her thumb over a scar on the back of his palm. 

“Swan.”  
  
“That was actually almost an honest to goodness joke.”   
  
“Not funny.”   
  
“Hysterical,” she countered, glancing up at him and he’d somehow managed to pull Matt towards him. “How long do you think a person can go without sleep before they succumb to complete madness?”   
  
“Eleven days,” Killian responded immediately. Emma’s head jerked back, eyebrows pulled low and the bags under her eyes somehow felt heavier.

“Why is that a thing you just know?”  
  
“I didn’t until somewhere in between Calgary and Vancouver and Scarlet thought it would be hysterical to find out how long I could actually go before passing out on the ice. Bad jokes, it seems, are some kind of trend these days.”   
  
“Rude,” Emma mumbled, but she’d worked her way against him, head falling on the one shoulder that wasn’t also supporting a baby.

“Scarlet thinks he’s funny. And there was, apparently, some kid in the 60’s who was doing it for a science fair project, but, I’d assume that didn't also include playing hockey games. So, you know, messes with his findings.”  
  
“I was talking about your joke critique,” she said as she tried to burrow her face into the fabric of his t-shirt. She could absolutely fall asleep standing up. “Also, how did we end up in this conversation? What were you talking about before?”   
  
“It’s because you don’t remember how _A Christmas Carol_ goes. Although I will give you points on the whole freaky part, despite your lackluster language skills.”   
  
“See, that’s being rude again.   
  
Killian laughed softly, doing his best not to jostle Matt, and Emma groaned when his shoulder shifted against her forehead. She was almost ninety-nine percent positive he kissed the top of her hair at some point, but she might have dreamt that.

“It’s not like you won't see it later,” Killian continued, and Emma was _certain_ she didn’t dream up the note of frustration in his voice. “A Vankald family tradition that is almost as important as air hockey and complimenting the bread pudding.”   
  
“You know I’m thinking of challenging the twins to a wrapping paper construction battle tomorrow morning. Maybe we could build some origami swans or something.”   
  
“That’s awfully ambitious for someone running on a few minutes of sleep, love.”   
  
“Ah, well, it’s better when you’re there.” Killian pulled back slightly, quirking an eyebrow at her and Emma rolled her eyes at the smirk on his face. “I’m just saying. It’s easier to tag-team a screaming infant when there are two people to team.”   
  
He hummed, brushing his thumb across her jaw and Emma tried not to  _sigh_ at the feel of it. The western swing had been, decidedly, the worst. Killian opened his mouth – likely to apologize for doing his job and Emma shook her head, trying to force any overwhelming feeling of sentiment into the back corner of her brain.

It was just exhaustion.

She was just tired.

And they were both done feeling guilty. It was, after all, Christmas.

“You know, I bet there are origami swan tutorials on the internet,” Killian said, and the smile was back on Emma’s face in a moment. “You could give it to Liam as some sort of token of your victory when you absolutely destroy him in air hockey tomorrow.”  
  
“You’re a giant, competitive weirdo, you know that?”   
  
“Athlete. And last night was the first time I’d slept like a normal human in a week.”   
  
“We woke up every other hour.”   
  
“I did, say _like_ Swan, not exactly,” Killian grinned. He definitely kissed her that time, lips pressed lightly against her temple and the side of her hair and Emma could only imagine how vaguely disgusting that was, but Killian didn’t seem all that put off by it. “We should definitely consider buying a bigger couch if that’s a thing we’re going to be doing though.”   
  
“We own a bed.”   
  
“I’m just saying. No harm in being prepared.”   
  
It felt like something actually clicked in the back corner of Emma’s mind and exhaustion was a strange thing – like she was wading through water or skating with dull blades and nothing seemed to move as quickly as she wanted it to. She must have made a face and several years and one kid later and Killian could still read her as easily as if she were the original text of the goddamn _Christmas Carol_.

“Were you asking me about the weather before?” Emma asked suddenly, and Killian’s whole head rolled back when he laughed. She glared at him and they both glanced at Matt quickly, hardly daring to breathe for fear of unleashing another round of _Matthew Jones tries to drive his parents insane._ “If that baby starts crying again, I’m going to kill you.”

“Swan, we talked about this. It’s a holiday. No murdering on national holidays.”  
  
He whispered the words, leaning forward to press his mouth against her ear, but Emma’s eyes didn’t move away from Matt.

He’d fallen asleep.

Well, damn.

“Parents of the year,” Emma mumbled, eyes falling closed before she could even consider trying to keep them open. “Except for all that glass on the ground. And you trying to pick it up with your bare hands and whatever you were talking about with the wind chill. Is it windy outside?”  
  
“I haven’t been outside, Swan. That’s why I was asking. And I’ll take care of the glass. There’s a broom…”   
  
“Somewhere?”   
  
“Probably. We have to have a broom, right?”   
  
“If we do, I have no idea where it is.”   
  
“Ah, well, I’ll find it,” Killian promised, shifting slightly and maybe they should just move the bed into the living room if they were, collectively, going to be doing most of their sleeping there. “You should shower, love, we were supposed to leave five minutes ago.”   
  
Emma groaned, scrunching her nose and she couldn’t seem to pull herself away from Killian’s shoulder. “Retract that parent of the year award.”   
  
“El told Mrs. V to throw her schedule out the window two weeks ago.” 

“What?”

“Yup,” Killian nodded. “Said that there was no way all of us could be held accountable for some schedule that didn’t even make sense when there were two more grandchildren involved and flights to worry about and some kind of end of the world storm looming over all of us.”  
  
“Wait, what?”   
  
“This is why I was asking about the wind chill.”

“I don’t understand.”  
  
“Several feet of snow is expected to fall on all five boroughs in the next forty-eight hours. I got an alert on my phone, didn’t you?”

Emma shrugged. “Probably. It’s been dead for like...a day.”  
  
He kissed her. And that was absolutely the last thing Emma expected. Or, no, Elsa telling Mrs. Vankald to throw her schedule out some kind of metaphorical window was absolutely the last thing Emma expected, but a visibly bruised and barely-standing Killian Jones kissing her was a close second.

And it kind of felt like those dull blades she’d been using to skate through whatever metaphor had melted through the ice. She kind of felt like she was melting.

“You can’t just do that,” Emma mumbled against his mouth and she felt Killian’s lips tick up in response. “Cheater, cheater pumpkin eater.”  
  
“Wrong holiday, Swan.”   
  
“I’m too tired to care. Is that why there were more diapers and onesies in that box by the door this morning? Did you order some kind of snowpocalypse survival package?”   
  
“Prepared. And if we’re going to get technical, I told Locksley what to buy on the bus. He actually ordered it. I couldn’t look at my phone, it was making my eyes hurt.”   
  
“That’s both the most absurd dad thing and saddest story I have ever heard.”   
  
He shrugged, pressing a kiss against her forehead again and Matt was, somehow, still asleep. “I’ll take somewhere in between. And Locksley had a kid while he was playing, it’s almost somewhat relatable.”   
  
“Almost?”   
  
“If I wasn’t so tired I’d come up with some disgusting sentimental, nauseatingly romantic cliché to tell you about how much different it is because it’s you and us, but my mind’s not quite working the way it should. And my leg is killing me.”   
  
“I think you still managed to...score?” Emma grimaced as soon as the words were out of her mouth, groaning slightly when her head collided with Killian’s chest and his arm wrapped around her waist tightly.

“Not once on the entire swing, Swan.”  
  
“Oh, way to tear down the mood, Cap.”   
  
“Several feet of snow.”   
  
Emma pulled her head back up, pressing on her toes to kiss Killian’s cheek and she could feel him exhale against her. She really needed to shower. She also needed her husband to stop feeling so goddamn guilty.

And then maybe clean up the glass on the floor.

“Hey,” she said softly, tugging on the front of his t-shirt. “We’re fine. No matter who’s maybe murdering who on national holidays, or setting some kind of sleep record or even with several feet of snow looming over all five boroughs, Long Island and Westchester county.”  
  
“I don’t know if it’s going to go that far north.”   
  
“Well, when you get your degree in meteorology, you can track the radar and let me know. In the meantime, we are as prepared as we can possibly be and we should probably thank Robin for agreeing to stare at your phone. And then maybe teach you how to fix the brightness so it doesn’t keep hurting your eyes, old man.”   
  
Killian laughed, nodding slowly and Emma tried to keep standing up on her own. “You are incredible, you know that?”   
  
“Tell me that when you’ve got eight hours of sleep in you.”   
  
“Nah, I’ve thought that from the very beginning. Absolutely incredible and parent of every single day.”   
  
“Now I know you’ve lost your mind,” Emma argued. “That doesn’t even make sense.”   
  
“Blame my very bruised leg.”   
  
“We should probably thank El for talking to Mrs. V. I just figured she was already there and making bread pudding and drafting legislation and being super mom. Total dick move.” Killian scoffed, staring at her like she’d suddenly grown several heads and maybe turned green or started shooting magic out of her fingertips. “What?”   
  
“At some point on the flight last night I convinced myself that Liam had not only already taught the twins how to skate perfectly, but probably chopped down the tree in the living room on his own and then, for good measure, helped Mr. V hang all the lights on the windows outside.”   
  
“Don’t they hire a guy for that?”   
  
“Oh they totally hire a guy for that,” Killian said quickly. “But at some point between blocking that shot in Calgary and listening to Red yell at me about bruise care over the break and ordering just an absolutely ridiculous amount of diapers, I was fairly positive my brother was doing circles around me when it came to parenting.”   
  
Emma’s stomach did something ridiculous at the admission, the way his eyes ducked down to his still sock-less feet and then back up to Matt, the ends of his mouth quirking up when he looked at their kid. They had a kid. A screaming, crying, refused-to-sleep _ever_ kid.

And he was absolutely perfect.

“No one is a better skater than you,” Emma said, tapping a finger against Killian’s chest like that would prove her point. “Or a better dad.”  
  
“Charmer.”   
  
“Honest.”

She could feel him take a deep breath, shifting Matt until a tiny hand gripped the Rangers emblem on the front of his shirt, and the whole thing was so goddamn _adorable_ Emma was half a second away from crying.

It was probably because it was Christmas.

“I love you,” Killian said. Emma’s heart might have exploded. It kind of felt like that. Christmas, when perfect, was also apparently just a bit violent. “I’m glad I’m home.”  
  
“Me too. Although we should really buy a broom if we don’t have one.”   
  
He laughed again and Emma grinned, pressing up to brush her lips across his. “Go shower, Swan. We’ll stage the great broom crusade out here and then we can beat the snow downtown.”   
  
“Sounds epic.”   
  
“Just Christmas.”

“Hey, you up for a bet, Cap?” Killian lifted his eyebrows, rocking back on his heels and staring at her like he was appraising her. Emma’s grinned widened. “I’m just saying, I definitely know that Ebenezer Scrooge doesn’t fall in his grave in the Vankald family favorite _A Muppet Christmas Carol_ , so I’d like to win something for my knowledge.”   
  
“What are you proposing, love?”   
  
“A goal in the first game after the break?”   
  
“That sounded like a question.”   
  
“Seemed wrong to make it a demand.”   
  
Killian hummed, lower lip stuck out slightly and if he didn’t stop twisting back and forth with _their kid_ pressed up against his chest, Emma was going to lose her mind. “It’s your bet, Swan. You’re allowed to make demands on terms. And what happens when I win?”   
  
“You sound awfully confident.”   
  
“You’re underestimating how many times I’ve seen this movie.”   
  
“If you win then you can...sleep through three straight cries. A hat trick of cries.”   
  
“Very generous of you.”   
  
“That’s how confident I am.”   
  
“We don’t watch _A Christmas Carol_ until Christmas night, you know,” Killian pointed out, and Emma shrugged.

“I know how the schedule works. And if you’re trying to get out of the bet, you can be more upfront about it.”

“I’m not. I’m just saying I might have to wait some time for my hat trick.”  
  
“Ah, well, we’re on break,” Emma mused, moving around Killian and only pausing long enough to press a kiss to the top of Mattie’s head. “Can’t push ahead too much or the league reps will be calling for blood.”   
  
She barely gave him enough time to get his quiet exclamation out before walking back down the hallway, muttering to _clean up the glass_ as she shut the bathroom door behind her.

 

Her phone had been tucked under one of the several dozen pillows on their bed and Emma stuffed it into her back pocket as she walked back into the living room, mouth half open to ask if they were _ready to go_ , but the words got caught in her throat as soon as she turned the corner. She might have sighed or maybe whimpered or something a human being who was getting eight hours of sleep absolutely should not do, but Emma could feel the tears prick the corners of her eyes as soon as she blinked and she wished her phone was charged so she could take a picture.

What a sentimental, vaguely competitive, absurdly late for Christmas schedules, weirdo.

Matt was, somehow, still asleep – and so was Killian.

His head was propped up against the armrest and it couldn’t have been comfortable, but Emma got the distinct impression that he hadn’t been planning on falling asleep. His left hand rested on Mattie’s back, the infant draped over Killian’s t-shirt and the _Rangers_ across the front, the tiny tuft of dark hair barely visible against the blue fabric.

Emma’s heart was definitely going to explode.

She pulled her lips back behind her teeth and, well, her phone was still dead. No one could yell at them if they were a few hours late.

Killian muttered something under his breath when Emma sank onto the edge of the couch, but he moved his arm out of instinct, tugging her back against his side without another word. “Just move over, Jones,” she whispered, letting her eyes close and her fingers fall against his stomach.

It was the best any of them had slept in a week.

There were already a few inches of snow on the ground by the time they managed to make their way off the couch and it took another twenty minutes for the car to show up and Mrs. Vankald was going to _kill them_. That was, of course, if they even managed to make it downtown.

It took what felt like several hours or possibly several sunlit days to get the car seat in place and the bags in the trunk and this was an unqualified disaster. Killian kept glancing out the window every two and seconds, tapping his foot impatiently on the floor of the car and Emma would have been the world’s biggest liar if she said she didn’t throw her arm in front of Mattie when the car skidded at a red light on West Houston.

“Saw that,” Killian mumbled, flashing her a smile and Emma rolled her eyes.

“Whatever, overprotective weirdo. You know the seat is locked in already, you don’t have to keep holding onto it like it’s going to fly somewhere.”  
  
He narrowed his eyes, but he pulled his fingers away from the side of the seat and crossed his arms, leaning back against the seat and, finally, keeping his foot still. “We should have just stayed home.”   
  
“If El and Liam can fly out here with three kids we can get downtown with one and a few inches of snow,” Emma argued.

“You are absurdly competitive.”  
  
“It’s because I’ve been waiting so long for air hockey. Got to work out that residual energy somehow.”   
  
“Ah, of course.”   
  
“We’re here,” the driver announced unnecessarily, and Emma laughed under her breath, working on the absurd number of straps and buckles that had kept Matt safe from the snow and two questionably overprotective parents.

It took another fifteen minutes to get everything out of the cab and another five minutes to actually walk up the slightly icy steps of the brownstone and that was distinctly unfair, Emma thought, Killian moving easily towards the door despite the car seat in one hand and several bags in the other.

“This is stupid,” Emma grumbled, trying to keep her balance when a gust of wind blew down the block and the brownstone looked just as well-decorated as ever, if not a little bit more over the top than usual. It was because there were so many grandkids involved.

Mrs. Vankald probably had some cliché to explain that.

“What is, love?” Killian asked. He didn’t have a hand to open the door and Emma was barely staying upright with, at least, two weeks worth of baby clothes weighing her down. He checked the door – bumping his shoulder and his hip against the wood. Emma nearly dropped everything she was holding.

“Oh my God, what are you doing?” Emma muttered, but she could almost make out footsteps behind the door and Killian grinned at her over his shoulder. “Didn’t that hurt?”  
  
“Yes. Answer my question.”   
  
“I’ve lost all track of this conversation.”   
  
He laughed softly, head snapping up when the door swung open and Anna barely stopped herself from launching towards Killian. She screeched instead. “Hey, MJ,” she yelled and there was a crying baby on the steps in addition to the ice and the snow and, at least, a dozen bags. “Oh my God, Oh my God, _Oh my God_  You are just perfect, aren’t you? Yes. Absolutely.”   
  
“He can’t actually answer you, Banana,” Killian pointed out, trying without much success to get Matt quiet. “And if you scream at my kid again I’m going to push you in traffic.”   
  
“Ok, well, that’s rude, first of all. And not very Christmas-y. And, second of all, Mom has given up on the schedule, but she’s fairly convinced you guys died somewhere on Broadway, so you should learn how to use your phone. And…”   
  
“God, how is there more?”   
  
Anna glared at him and Emma bit back a smile, not sure if she was supposed to be enjoying the scene in front of her when her hands were starting to cramp and her hair was damp from the snow. “Are you done?” Anna asked.

“Are you?”  
  
“Obviously not. Your kid is painfully adorable, KJ. That’s where I was going with this. How come I don’t get pictures every second of every day?”   
  
“My phone would die?”   
  
“I mean, figure it out, obviously,” Anna sighed, leaning against the doorframe and they would all probably freeze before they got into the brownstone. Emma could hear more voices and more footsteps and it was only a matter of time before the entire Vankald platoon arrived in the foyer. “Also,” Anna continued, voice dropping slightly. “Can I hold him?”   
  
Killian shifted on his feet – somehow still able to keep his balance on stairs covered in ice – and Emma didn’t even try to mask the smile when she saw the twins skid to a stop a few feet away from them. They were both wearing Jones jerseys.

“Yeah, of course, Banana,” Killian said. “You think we could come inside first?”

Anna let out a watery laugh, trying to brush the tears away from her eyes, but it didn’t really work and it took far longer than it should have to get, what felt like, most of their worldly possessions into the brownstone.

“Were you guys planning on ever leaving or….”

Emma glanced up to find Liam, staring at them, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and he wasn’t wearing team-branded, but there was a towel draped over his shoulder and another kid clutching the front of his t-shirt.

“Did El not tell you about the impending snow disaster we were all going to have to deal with?” Killian asked, crouching down to push Anna’s hands out of the way when she couldn't figure out how to get Mattie out of the car seat he was still strapped in. “Move, Banana,” he muttered, and she stuck her tongue out.

“Please,” Liam muttered. “I have heard nothing else except the plans for our death by snow for the last week. I’m surprised Elsa hasn’t actually started tracking out the projected course of the storm. She and Mr. V are watching the Weather Channel right now.”  
  
“Don’t tell him that, Liam,” Emma groaned, eyes darting towards Anna when she tugged Matt up against her chest. “He’s going to go in there and start demanding a green screen be placed in the living room so he can give us the forecast for the weekend.”   
  
Liam practically cackled, falling forward with the force of his laugh and Matt made some kind of three-month-old noise at the sound, Anna mumbling under her breath while she rocked back and forth. She was explaining all the photos on the wall.

“Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers and wanna-be weather enthusiast,” Liam chuckled, hefting up the kid in his arms. “Is that why you guys are so late? Preparing for the end of the world?”  
  
“We aren't really that late,” Killian argued. He took a step towards Liam, brushing his hand over Lizzie’s hair – nearly as blonde as Elsa’s and just barely covering her forehead when she burrowed against her father’s shoulder. Both of the twins were talking a mile a minute, tugging on the side of Killian’s t-shirt and muttering something that sounded like _best of_ and _marathon on MSG_ at him.

“Hours, little brother. Hours late. With more clothing than even an impending snow disaster would deem necessary.”  
  
“Younger brother,” Killian mumbled out of instinct, and Emma rested her palm flat on his shirt when she moved next to him. “And, c’mon, give it a break. Half of those bags are presents anyway.”   
  
“And diapers,” Emma added.

“Oh, that’s actually a good idea,” Liam admitted. “You know Anna’s never going to give your kid back, right?”  
  
Anna spun at the sound of her own name and Emma tried not to visibly wince. Killian rested his hand on top of hers and Liam laughed – again. They were both absurdly competitive and absurdly overprotective and _Operation: Matthew Jones’ first Christmas and first major trip out of the apartment_ was not going according to plan.

“Oh,” Liam said suddenly, eyebrows nearly flying off his forehead when he realized what was going on. “I get it, I get it. Bubble wrap. We were the same with the twins.”  
  
“Excuse me?” Killian asked.

“Bubble wrap parents. It’s not the insult it sounds like. Until Mr. V says it and then it’s definitely an insult, but you’ll deal.” Killian shook his head when Liam smiled at them and there were more footsteps and Mrs. Vankald was already crying.

“It’s not like she’s never seen us before,” Killian muttered, pressing a kiss against Emma’s head.

“Yeah, I don’t think we’re the main attraction anymore,” she answered. Mrs. Vankald and Anna were already arguing over who got to hold Mattie and Lizzie Vankald-Jones did not appreciate the sudden amount of noise in the foyer, a fact she made painfully obvious when she actually kicked Liam in the stomach.

“Hey, none of that,” Elsa said, appearing as suddenly as if she’d suddenly teleported there. She tugged Lizzie’s foot away from Liam’s shirt, dropping the toddler back on the ground and brushing her hair out of her eyes and she was wearing a University of Minnesota hockey t-shirt.

“What is that?” Killian asked, nodding towards his niece. “Are we going back in time?”

“They can’t all wear your number all the time,” Liam explained. “Stop trying to commandeer all the cute.”

“Being a parent expand your vocabulary then?”

“Horsemen,” Mrs. Vankald said and Emma waited for the rest of it, but it never came, just a smile and Matt making noise and Lizzie looked almost passably interested in the painfully domestic scene unfolding around her.

“Mom thought you’d died on Broadway,” Elsa said. Emma wasn’t sure which one of them moved quicker, Killian wrapping his arms around Elsa and pulling her tightly against him and both of their shoulders sagged, like any worry about snow or the end of the world or what they’d do if they were cooped up in the brownstone for several weeks, falling away as soon as they embraced in the middle of the foyer.

Mrs. Vankald was never going to stop crying.  

“If we’re going to break all the schedule rules, I’m not eating bread pudding this year,” Killian announced – mostly into Elsa’s hair. Anna yelled again, punching his back and trying to pull his hair and they were definitely _horsemen_ , a mess of limbs and emotion and family. “And we didn’t even take Broadway down here. Almost died on 7th instead.”   
  
Emma rolled her eyes, finding her way back to Mrs. Vankald’s side and she couldn’t seem to keep her hands from reaching out towards Matt.

“We found a new recipe, KJ,” Anna whined, making a face when Killian slung an arm over her shoulder. Elsa clicked her tongue and Anna rolled her eyes. “Ok, well, El did, but whatever. It’s new and it’s different and maybe we won’t suck so much at this one.”  
  
“It’s like a Christmas Twilight Zone,” Liam added. He’d picked Lizzie back up at some point, arms wrapped around her back while one hand traced across her spine. Mr. Vankald was still, apparently, watching the Weather Channel.

“You want to help, Emma?” Elsa asked, and Killian’s smile probably could have stopped the traffic he’d threatened to push Anna in front of. “We really do think this one might not be totally horrible.”  
  
“It’s not going to suck is what she’s saying,” Anna corrected, eyes going wide when Lizzie started repeating _suck suck suck_ in the middle of the foyer.

Killian disentangled himself away from his sisters, pulling Matt out of Mrs. Vankald’s hands and it was just so much _family_ , Emma was positive someone should be documenting it for posterity. Anna probably would. “Way to go, Banana,” he laughed. “Corrupting kids, already.”   
  
“Shut up,” she shot back, glancing hopefully at Emma. “You want to, Emma? Maybe you’re the missing ingredient or something less stupid sounding than that?”

“Definitely something less stupid than that,” Emma said. “But, yeah, sure. Although I make no promises.”  
  
“That’s fair.”

It didn’t work. Bread pudding, it seemed, was disgusting by its very nature and didn’t go very well with Chinese food, which, they, somehow, managed to get delivered despite the foot of snow now sitting on the sidewalk outside.

“It’s because Mom is some kind of soothsayer,” Anna explained, slumped in the corner of the couch with her phone in her hand and something that looked like amusement in her gaze. “And she ordered that food as soon as the place opened this morning. Said she was trying to be prepared.”  
  
Emma laughed, legs draped over Killian’s and her head on his shoulder, and they might have slept for a fully uninterrupted hour that morning, but she could feel exhaustion settling in between her shoulder blades again.

“How did that happen, exactly?” Emma asked. Anna lifted her eyebrows in confusion and, a few feet away, Elsa dropped the marker she was holding. She’d been drawing the air hockey bracket, Liam in her ear every other minute about seeding and _that’s not fair_ and Emma tried not to blush when the entire living room gaped at her.

“What happened?” Anna asked.

“The Chinese food. I’ve always wondered that. I mean, I know it’s tradition…” She trailed off, shrugging slightly – or trying to. Killian’s arm moved around her shoulders, pulling her flush against him and Emma definitely blushed when he kissed her forehead.

“Oh that’s totally KJ’s fault,” Elsa answered flippantly, grabbing the marker again and telling Liam, for the eighteenth time that night, that Emma had to be the number one seed.

“You like Chinese food, El,” Killian muttered. Emma glanced up at the sound of his voice, just a bit strained and, someday, she’d probably not want to know every single thing about him. Maybe not. That seemed like a sign.

Elsa shook her head. “You like Chinese food. We tolerate it at best.”  
  
“Your bread pudding was horrible, again.”   
  
“I fixed the schedule for you guys.”   
  
“You were as worried about the snow as I was,” Killian hissed, far too aware of the sleeping kids on various spots on the floor. He leaned over the side of the couch and moved Mattie’s bassinet, glancing at him. “Still asleep,” he told Emma before she could even get the question out. “Good since he’ll need all his strength for whatever Mrs. V has planned tomorrow.”   
  
“Not to mention Emma’s title defense,” Anna chipped, in and she’d totally done it to work a groan out of Liam. It worked.

“I still don’t understand,” Emma interrupted. “Ok, so the Chinese food is for Killian? Or because of Killian?”  
  
“Both,” Elsa and Anna answered at the same time.

That got Liam to smile again. “The first Christmas we were here,” he started, “we were...not great?” Elsa nodded encouragingly, the bracket forgotten again when her fingers found their way into the back of Liam’s hair. “Not great,” he repeated. “And we’d been here for nearly six months, but nothing was really official yet.”  
  
“We thought we were going to have to leave,” Killian explained, but his voice was scratchy, like he was straining over every letter.

Liam hummed in agreement. “The social worker assigned to our case wasn’t sure and we’d been here far longer than anyone expected already. It isn’t, uh, it isn’t really normal for the kids to stay this long in one house unless they’re going to be adopted. So we thought we were on our way out. It was driving Mr. and Mrs. V insane, meetings and promises and tax returns.”  
  
“Tax returns?” Emma asked.

“To make sure they were financially stable enough to support four kids. As if looking at the brownstone wasn’t enough to…” He heaved a deep breath and Elsa clicked her tongue thoughtfully, like this was a rant she’d heard several dozen times before. “Anyway,” Liam continued. “They were doing everything they could to keep us here and keep us together and we had no idea. Not really. We were just trying to prepare for the worst while Mr. V kept forcing us to hang more lights outside.”  
  
“Nearly froze to death,” Killian mumbled, and Emma kissed _him_ at that.

“That’s definitely true,” Liam agreed, grunting softly when Elsa elbowed him in the side. “Mr. V knows what he did, Elsa. He’d admit it now.”  
  
“Can you tell the rest of the story before we die, please?” Anna pleaded, throwing a pillow at Liam. He caught it one-handed. “Oh my God. I’m never going to hear the end of that.”   
  
“That’s just talent, kid.”   
  
“Jeez, I’ll finish the story,” Elsa sighed, twisting around to stare intently at Emma. “Liam and KJ were mad. As you’d expect. They’d just gotten and no one could give them an answer about what would happen if Mom and Dad couldn’t prove to the state of New York that they were fit to parent even they didn’t adopt them. But, well…”   
  
She trailed off, biting her lip tightly and Emma followed her gaze towards Killian’s, his eyes on the wrong side of stormy and he seemed suddenly very preoccupied with Mattie. “I have a tendency to get a bit angrier than Liam,” he finished.

“Exactly that,” Elsa agreed. “And they’d never really had much of a Christmas before they got here, even in the middle of New York. So I figured I’d do something.”  
  
“Nearly scared Mom to death,” Anna murmured, twisting around so she had her head on Killian’s lap. Emma tried not to kick her.

Elsa smiled at Emma, shrugging slightly. “We went uptown. Stole a bunch of quarters out of dad’s wallet and went to Rockefeller Center to see the tree. KJ had never been there before and I was, personally, scandalized with the idea.”  
  
“What?” Emma gaped, eyes darting between Killian and Elsa. She just shrugged again. “Weren’t you, like, eight years old?”   
  
“Yeah,” Killian nodded. “But I knew how to ride the train and El was very determined to spread Christmas cheer. It was Christmas Eve and it was packed, tourists everywhere and people wearing Santa hats and ringing bells. It’s some kind of miracle we weren’t actually trampled.”   
  
“He wasn’t very impressed with the tree,” Elsa muttered.

Emma lifted her eyebrows slowly, smiling at him and Killian rolled his eyes. “It’s a tree,” he said. “We went in the middle of the afternoon, it’s not impressive when you can’t see it all lit up.”

“Practical from a young age,” Anna mumbled against Killian’s jeans. He flicked his finger against her ear. She punched him in the thigh.

“Jeez, Banana, relax. There’s a very large bruise there.”  
  
“Learn how to check people, KJ.”   
  
“Ok, wait,” Emma said, smiling despite her vague frustration at how easily this conversation kept getting derailed. “So how does this explain the Chinese food?”   
  
Elsa laughed. So did Liam. And Anna. And even Killian’s chest shook slightly underneath her. Emma didn’t expect that.

“We spent all of five minutes in front of the tree before KJ announced it was stupid,” Elsa said. “So we went across the street to Saks. And they weren’t very happy to see us there.”  
  
“That’s because you started playing _how much is this_ ,” Liam added knowingly. He laughed even louder when he saw the look on Emma’s face. “They go through 5th Avenue department stores, find the most absurd things they can and then try and guess how much it is. We start competition young in this family.”   
  
Emma’s laugh was somewhere in the realm of a _guffaw_ and both she and Killian’s head darted towards Matt when he made a noise. “Still asleep,” she muttered, breathing a sigh of relief. Killian kissed her again. “I can’t imagine the Saks security appreciated your game,” Emma continued, and she had half an idea of where this was going.

“No,” Elsa agreed. “Found us in between racks of clothes on the sixth floor without any parental supervision and called Mom and Dad to get us. They were, uh, not pleased.”  
  
“To say the least,” Killian laughed softly. He leaned his head back against the top of the couch, smile pulling at the ends of his mouth and Emma felt her heart lurch at the sight, the memories almost playing out on his face.

“So what happened?” 

“I was convinced they were just going to throw me out for that, not even wait until the state made a decision,” Killian confessed. “They didn’t say a single thing the entire ride home and El kept muttering apologies and promising it was her fault and I couldn’t bring myself to even open my eyes. I was positive it was over.”  
  
“Dramatic idiot,” Anna whispered, but she tugged on the front of Killian’s shirt with a familiarity that made Emma’s stomach clench. “They’d been downtown all day. Got word, on goddamn Christmas Eve, that they could keep the brothers Jones indefinitely.”   
  
“Make it sound more clinical, Banana.”   
  
She punched his thigh again.

“Anyway,” Elsa said pointedly. “They told us when we got home. That KJ and Liam could stay as long as they wanted and that they wanted them to stay forever and that we should have, at least, taken a car uptown. I thought KJ’s head was going to explode. And then Mom asked what we should do to celebrate and…”  
  
“Chinese food,” Emma said, glancing up at Killian. His ears had gone red again. “And just when I thought you guys couldn’t get anymore adorable.”   
  
“Ah, well, we aim to please,” Liam shrugged. “It stuck.”

Emma shook her head slowly, taking in the scene around her and the bread pudding might have sucked, _again_ , but the entire Vankald family loved each other so much it was a wonder there weren’t just hearts floating through the air at all times.

Except when the air hockey tournament started.

Then all bets were off.

“Where is Mom?” Anna asked, pulling her head up sharply like she’d only just realized Mrs. Vankald wasn’t also in the living room distributing Christmas Eve clothing options. All of them turned when a knock came on the front door, eyes wide and expressions curious and Emma would have scoffed at Killian when he moved his hand towards Matt immediately if she didn’t do the same exact thing.

Bubble wrap.

And exhaustion.

They should probably try and sleep. The twins were going to wake them up at dawn.

Mrs. Vanakald yelled something from the foyer when the door creaked open and they got five seconds warning before a snow-covered Roland Locksley sprinted into the living room.

“Hook,” he shouted, throwing himself at the couch and Killian groaned when a knee collided with his stomach. “Merry Christmas, Hook!”

Killian froze, one hand on Roland’s back and the other still wrapped around Emma’s shoulders and, well, there went sleeping. Mrs. Vankald was still talking in the foyer, voice picking up with excitement and plans and _of course there’s room_ and Roland still hadn’t offered any explanation as to how he’d found himself in the brownstone living room.

“Not a creature was stirring,” Liam mumbled, pushing up off the floor to grab Roland around the waist and haul him over his shoulder. “Except for over-enthusiastic nine year olds. What are you doing here, Rol?”  
  
Roland didn’t answer, except to shout _Merry Christmas, Uncle Liam_ in his ear and Emma glanced up quickly when the voices from the foyer worked their way into the living room. Robin looked somewhere between overwhelmed and confused and just a bit hopeful, snow in his hair and Henry barely conscious next to him. Regina had a bag over her shoulder and two more bags under her eyes and the entire New York Rangers first line, it seemed, really needed some sleep.

“What are you doing here?” Killian asked, and Robin’s eyebrows sailed up his forehead.

“Thanks for the warm welcome, Cap. I’m going back to Mrs. V. At least she offered us reheated Chinese food.”  
  
“That didn’t answer my question.”

“Uh, hey,” another voice said, leaning around the wall that led back to the hallway and Emma nearly jumped off the couch.

Mary Margaret smiled nervously at the scene in front of her, David just a few steps behind and loaded down with his own bags. Emma didn’t know who to look at. Roland was still talking about presents and plans and _Chinese food_ and they’d managed to wake up Mr. Vankald as well if the noise on the stairs was any indication.

“It’s snowing a lot, Hook,” Roland said, voice muffled a bit from where his head was still pressed against Liam’s back.

“Henry, sit down,” Emma mumbled, standing up to grab the zombie-like teenager and push him towards the other side of the couch.

Killian moved with her, holding an expectant hand out towards both Regina and David. “I still have no idea what’s going on,” he said, nodding when David pointed towards the corner of the living room. “Did you guys come here together?”  
  
“Not a lot of options out of JFK,” Regina said .

And Emma felt like an actual light bulb had gone off over her head. “How much snow is a lot of snow, exactly?” she asked.

“Several feet and dozens of cancelled flights. Both of ours included.”  
  
“How did you guys find each other?”   
  
Regina shrugged. “Christmas?”

“I’ll take it.”  
  
“It’s as good a reason as any,” Mary Margaret said, jumping when Mrs. Vankald appeared next to her with a plate of cookies that Emma was only half certain she didn’t just magic out of thin air. “We uh, well…”   
  
“We told them to come with us,” Robin explained. “Mostly because we can’t get out of New York and we can’t get uptown and, well, you guys have a Christmas tree.”   
  
He nodded towards the monstrosity in the corner of the living room, covered in lights and garland and more tinsel than Emma was aware existed in the entire northern hemisphere. “That’s true,” Killian reasoned. “You didn’t think to call?”   
  
“When’s the last time you charged your phone, Cap?”   
  
“I have absolutely no idea.”   
  
“And he doesn’t know how to fix the brightness,” Emma chipped in, smiling at Killian when he turned on her like it was the greatest betrayal in the history of the world. Robin barely stayed upright when he started to laugh.

“That’s true,” he chuckled. “He’s ancient. Also we called Mrs. V because we're not animals.”  
  
“What is that?” David interrupted, glancing at the bracket Elsa was still working on and, this year, apparently included detailed drawings of them like they each had their own mascot or something.

It took most of the night – filled with reheated Chinese food and Mrs. Vankald apologizing for not having shirts for everyone and Matt got _twenty-one_ on the back of his Christmas Eve uniform – but they managed to rearrange the bracket to include David and Robin and Henry. Anna promised several times she was _thankful_ to be left out.

“I’ll just take pictures,” she said. “Send them to Scarlet so he can get frustrated that he wasn’t included in this team bonding exercise.”  
  
“He’s going to be super pissed,” Robin muttered, leaning against the front of the couch and Roland was draped over him, fast asleep.

“That’s what he gets for leaving a day earlier than all of us,” Regina said. “Plus, he can’t be visibly angry or Belle’s father won’t be pleased with the news that they’re buying an apartment.”  
  
“What?” Killian and Robin asked at the same time, matching looks of surprise on their face. Emma nodded against his t-shirt, cheek brushing against his shoulder blade and they’d somehow managed to steal some of the couch, horizontal with several pillows under Killian’s head and Matt, still in a bassinet, in front of them.

“How did you not know that?” Emma asked. “This has been the plan for, like, months.”

“How do you?” Killian challenged, but the question fell a bit short when his fingers found their way under the edge of her shirt.

“Ariel told me.”  
  
“Someone needs to take Red’s phone away from her.”

Emma hummed, eyelids fluttering and they needed to move upstairs if they were going to fall asleep. She wasn’t sure her legs would agree. Killian’s hand didn’t stop moving, tracing across the bottom of her spine and the curve of her hip and that wasn’t even fair.

“Here,” he said, tugging a blanket off the top of the couch and draping it over both of them. The Christmas tree was still lit up in the corner and Emma burrowed against Killian’s side before she could come up with all the reasons her body wouldn’t appreciate that the next morning.

Mary Margaret and David were already asleep – curled up in a loveseat that wasn’t built for two people, with the twins in front of them, their respective stockings laid out in front of them. “We should move,” Emma argued, but it didn’t hold much weight when Liam had started snoring already and Robin couldn’t quite mask his laugh.

“Do not wake up that kid,” Regina warned. “You know, any of them.”

The floorboards creaked when Mrs. Vankald walked back into the living room, laden down with blankets and a smile on her face. “Thought you lot might be cold,” she said, handing Robin what looked like an entire comforter and he nodded. “This makes it easier. Now no one needs to move in the morning.”  
  
“Thanks, Mrs. V,” he mumbled, sounding old and young and tired all at the same time. Her smile was almost as bright as the Christmas tree.

“Well, I’m going to my room,” Anna announced, pushing up from the corner of the room and pausing only briefly to press a kiss on her mother’s cheek. And Emma might have dreamt it, had already given up on trying to move and she was so _warm_ already, it felt like insanity to even think of pulling away from Killian, but she was fairly certain Anna’s camera clicked before her footsteps retreated upstairs.

The sudden addition of two more children on Christmas morning was a challenge Mrs. Vankald didn’t just meet, but one that deserved several Stanley Cups of its own. And maybe that Olympic gold medal sitting in the apartment several dozen blocks uptown.

There was, of course, wrapping paper everywhere – Emma pulled some out of Killian’s back pocket at some point during the afternoon – but neither Roland nor Henry were lacking for presents and everyone seemed as intent as ever to make sure that Matt had the kind of _first Christmas_ that would become Vankald family legend.

Mr. Vankald bought him a pillow.

Of course.

And Killian smiled at Emma when she moved out the living room, barely making it a few steps into the hallway before she couldn’t quite see through her tears. What an emotional freak.

“Deep breaths, Swan,” Killian muttered, tugging her back around and laughing softly when she hiccuped against his t-shirt. His fingers found the edge of her hair, letting it fall over the back of his hand over the name on the back of her shirt and it felt like several years before Emma could pull in enough oxygen before she could bring herself to even try and talk.

“Like a goddamn storybook.”  
  
“It’s because our kid is so much better than everyone else’s.”   
  
Her laugh was really more of a scoff and maybe a sigh, but Emma’s mouth ticked up at the conviction in his voice, the certainty that Mattie Jones was, unequivocally, the greatest kid in the world, not just the brownstone downtown.

“Several uninterrupted hours of sleep,” Emma said. “Some kind of Christmas miracle.”  
  
“Visions of sugar plums,” Killian intoned. “And he needed to build up his strength to be a one-kid cheering section for me later on.”   
  
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on.” Emma pulled her head back to find herself face to face with a smirk and a flash of blue eyes and she barely opened her mouth before she found herself suddenly preoccupied with something else entirely.

She pushed up on her toes quickly, slinging one arm around Killian’s neck and pushing her other hand into his hair and it wasn’t like they hadn’t kissed since he’d gotten back from the swing, but all of that had been drowning in exhaustion, sluggish and half-awake and it wasn’t anything quite like kissing him in the middle of the hallway on Christmas morning.

That felt like everything.

Still and always and indefinitely.

Anna’s camera clicked again when she rounded the corner, a cackle lingering in the air behind her and Emma rolled her eyes when she dropped her forehead back to Killian’s chest. He was laughing.   
  
“Merry Christmas, KJ,” Anna said brightly, kicking at his ankle. “Dad wants to start so he can sit on the couch and make ridiculous faces at MJ sooner. Also David is already talking trash and it’s actually kind of hysterical.”   
  
“This doesn’t surprise me at all,” Emma said, shaking her head and lacing her fingers through Killian’s. “Whatever, he’s totally going down.”   
  
“Isn’t he on the other side of the bracket?”   
  
“I mean, technically, everyone is going down. I’m totally going to defend my title. Three years running is some kind of record, isn’t it?”

“KJ won four out of five once, but, yeah, it would be. Also, I’m morally obligated to point out that you guys are competitive weirdos. I know it won’t stick, but I’m just doing my duty as a human being.”  
  
“You’ve done it, Banana,” Killian promised. “Go tell David he can wait two more seconds so I can keep making out with my wife.”   
  
Anna made a noise, pushing her phone into Killian’s face and snapping what sounded like eighteen photos. “Gross,” she shouted, but she walked away anyway and Killian nearly tripped over his own feet trying to turn back towards Emma.

“What?” he asked and for half a moment she almost felt bad. And that weird, competitive streak flared back to life and she wanted to win for the third straight year.

“You told me our kid would only be rooting for you and now you want to keep making out? Nuh uh, Cap. We are now, officially, sworn enemies.”  
  
Killian raised his eyebrows, staring at Emma with something that looked a bit like interest and maybe just a little like want and this all felt decidedly like flirting. They always seemed to fall back on that. “You’re already going to lose one bet, Swan. You can’t afford to compete with me on anything else.”   
  
“You think so?”   
  
“I know so.”   
  
“We could meet in the final if the bracket plays out.”   
  
“I also know how to read a bracket, love.”   
  
“Oh, snarky when you’re nervous. I’ll have to remember that from now on.”   
  
His eyes seemed to get _bluer_ , drifting from her down to her mouth and across the t-shirt with a ‘C’ on the shoulder. “You want to go double or nothing, then?”   
  
“That’s six straight cries,” Emma pointed out, crossing her arms lightly over her chest and Killian blinked. “And two goals.”

“I’m aware of the terms, love.”  
  
“Awfully confident for a guy who’s definitely going to lose.”   
  
“You’re the one not answering. Seems like you’re worried about losing.”   
  
“Please,” Emma scoffed, rolling her shoulders back. Killian grinned when she stood up to her full height. “Fine. Double or nothing. But don’t complain to me when you lose.”   
  
She pushed her hand out into the minimal amount of space between them, shaking her wrist when he didn’t take it immediately. Killian eyed her speculatively for a moment and Emma got the distinct impression she was _missing something_ , but she was competitive and she really liked to win and she wanted to set some kind of Vankald family record that afternoon.

Killian smiled when he wrapped his fingers around hers, but they didn’t shake on it the way Emma planned. Instead, he pulled her hand up to his mouth, kissing along the edge of her knuckles and Emma’s breath caught in her throat.

“Cheater,” she accused, and he just laughed in response.

He didn’t, however, laugh later that night.

Emma won. Again.

And Ebenezer Scrooge never fell in the grave in _A Muppet Christmas Carol_ – both of them watching the scene with such intensity that even Mary Margaret had asked _what’s going on_. They both shushed her. And Emma screamed so loudly when Ebenezer Scrooge woke up on Christmas Day, no residual dirt from his own grave to be seen, that it sounded a bit as if she’d realized the meaning behind the holiday.

Maybe she kind of had.

That, however, felt a bit heavy-handed when Killian was grumbling under his breath and half-slamming childhood doors behind him.

“I did tell you you were going to lose,” Emma said, doing her best not to laugh. “You need to work on your technique. Air hockey’s all in the wrist. You’re trying to do too much with your elbow.”

Killian scowled, tugging his shirt over his head and dropping it in a heap on the floor. “That is not an actual sport, Swan.”  
  
“It would be if you won.” He stared at her for a moment, but he couldn’t seem to keep the look on his face for more than a few moments and Emma nearly groaned when she realized what was going on. “Oh, you totally knew about Ebenezer Scrooge didn’t you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Swan.”  
  
“You are, easily, the worst liar in the world. And Roland tried to tell Robin that he was even vaguely talented at air hockey this afternoon.”   
  
“He was painfully bad wasn’t he?” Killian laughed, dropping onto the mattress and holding his hand up expectantly.

Emma hummed as she curled against his side, twisting her legs in between his and glancing at the pop-up crib in the corner of the room. Still sleeping. Still quiet. That’d probably last another two minutes.

“Did you lose on purpose?” Emma pressed. “Because then my record comes with an asterisk and I don’t really want to Barry Bonds this whole thing.”

“No, Swan. You won fair and square.”

“How come you went double or nothing, then?”  
  
Killian didn’t answer immediately and Emma considered actually pressing her knuckles into his thigh, but that seemed to fly in the face of _Christmas_ and she just waited for a response. “I just...” he whispered, fingers trailing across her arm and back up into her hair. “I’m not around and I haven’t been around and...well, I should at least be able to score some goals, Emma.”   
  
“Stupid,” she mumbled, mostly so she didn’t start to cry. Again. The hormone thing really needed to stop. He scoffed softly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head and Emma propped her head back up on her hand, staring at him as seriously as she could at some indeterminate time on Christmas night. “And you’ve got to stop doing that. You have a job. We knew that. I have a job. It requires western swings. You just need to score some more.”   
  
He shook his head slowly, pulling his eyes away from the ceiling to glance towards Emma and, at least that time, they’d move the making out to a room and a bed and away from any siblings armed with iPhone cameras.

“Never let it be said I don’t hold up my end of a bet,” Killian muttered against her mouth.

“What a line.”  
  
“You’re very good inspiration.”   
  
“Oh that was even worse,” she groaned, but she was smiling and not nearly as tired as she probably should have been and she couldn't remember a Christmas that was more _perfect_ than that one had been.

“I love you,” Killian continued. “That work, instead?”  
  
Emma twisted her mouth slightly – like that was even something she had to consider – and she nodded against the half a dozen pillows underneath her. “I love you too. And I made you something.”   
  
“What?”   
  
She took a moment to appreciate the note of surprise in his voice, the slight confusion in his gaze and the way he whined in the back of his throat when she moved towards the nightstand behind her. “It’s not a swan,” Emma started, “but this is the extent of my artistic creativity, so you know, take it for what it’s worth.”   
  
Killian stared at her outstretched hand, mouth half open and shoulders heaving slightly and he held onto the small piece of wrapping paper like it was several blocks of gold. “Merry Christmas,” she mumbled.   
  
He didn’t look back up at her, just kept staring at the makeshift gift in his hand, cut to look like a _first place ribbon_ and Mary Margaret had totally done that part because Emma couldn't figure out how to do it. He blinked quickly, tracing his thumb over the _NUMBER ONE DAD_ written hastily across the paper, pulling his lips back behind his teeth and the hormones had won.

Emma was totally crying.

“I wouldn’t change anything,” she promised, not sure why it was quite so difficult to get the words she’d been thinking for the last week out. Probably because she was crying. And Killian kept staring at wrapping paper like he’d be content to keep looking at it for the rest of his life.

“A hat trick in the next game,” he said. “At least.”  
  
“At least?”   
  
“At least.”   
  
Emma laughed, but she was fairly positive he could do it. She hummed, pulling herself back against Killian’s side and tracing her thumb across the back of his wrist. And she was halfway to sleeping again, certain they’d both, almost, be cognizant members of society by the next morning, so, naturally, Matt woke up.

They both groaned and Emma squeezed her eyes shut tighter, hoping that would, somehow, silence the baby on the other side of the room. “He’s probably hungry,” she sighed, and she was halfway out of the bed before Killian jumped out, muttering under his breath and rocking a still-fussy Matt against his chest.

“Well, that’s just stupid,” Emma groaned, and he glanced at her over his shoulder, eyebrows pulled low in confusion. “You can’t look that good holding a kid after staring at a cut-up sheet of wrapping paper like it’s the greatest gift you’ve ever gotten. That’s cheating.”  
  
“Cheating?”   
  
“Decidedly.”   
  
Killian chuckled, moving Mattie again and, that time, Emma understood the mumbling. “You hungry, kid? Is that what’s going on? Because Mom and I would really love to sleep at some point tonight.”   
  
Emma chewed on her lip, trying to figure out if her hormones could be blamed for whatever it was her stomach was doing and probably not. That was disappointing. “C’mon,” she said, nodding back towards Killian. “Bring the kid back and then we can get, like, ten minutes of sleep.”   
  
“We’re aiming awfully high, now, Swan.”   
  
“You promised at least a hat trick already. In the realm of aiming high….”   
  
“You wound me,” Killian laughed, but he walked back to the bed with a smile on his face, handing Matt back to Emma. “Three points, at least, I can’t promise all goals.”   
  
“You’re making caveats now, Cap,” Emma said, wincing when Mattie moved against her. “God, kid, relax.” Killian traced his fingers over the back of her neck again and Emma felt herself, almost, relaxing against his side, barely picking up on the words he kept muttering in her ear. “You’ve got to enunciate if you’re going to tell a story.”   
  
“Are you demanding a story, love?”   
  
“Suggesting. You know, just the mother of your kid, feeding your kid, _on Christmas_. No big deal.”   
  
“Yeah, yeah, I can see that,” Killian chuckled, kissing her temple and squeezing her shoulder lightly. “Alright, did I ever tell you how, once, when I was twelve we snuck onto the Circle Line and Anna managed to get seasick in New York Harbor?”   
  
Emma laughed, doing her best to keep Mattie steady against her, and shook her head. Killian just grinned and launched into the story – she only heard half of it, the words trailing off eventually as soon as Mattie closed his eyes and Killian whispered _go back to sleep, Swan_ when he walked back to the crib. 

* * *

They played the Blue Jackets at home four days later – the first game at the Garden in what felt like an eternity and Emma grinned when her phone dinged in the back corner of the team sweet.

**_Fifty percent of the country’s entire population lives within a 500-mile radius of Columbus. And last call in Columbus is two in the morning. And Columbus was the sight of the world’s first water filtration facility_ ** **.**

_You looked that last one up._

**_I promise, Swan. I knew that. Ask Liam. He’ll tell you._ **

_The Blue Jackets entered the league in the same season as the Wild._

**_That’s a very generic fact._ **

_When you’re trying to deal with a three-month-old’s excitement at being at the Garden for the first time, come talk to me about remembering facts about an expansion franchise._

**_I like that you don’t like expansion teams. And I look forward to talking about several different facts, including meeting bet terms, post-game._ **

_Original six or bust._

Killian hat-tricked. Of course he did. And Emma couldn't even bring herself to be remotely frustrated or passably surprised, certain he’d do exactly that as soon as he promised, adding an assist for good measure and glancing in the direction of the team suite when time expired.

Competitive idiot.

She loved him a ridiculous amount.

And the locker room nearly exploded when she walked in after post, Mattie only slightly stunned by the commotion around him and both Will and Robin leapt away from a small army of reporters to push their way towards Emma.

“You know, I’m super pissed you guys had some kind of family bonding experience without me,” Will said, but he couldn’t seem to bring himself to glare when he managed to pull Matt out of Emma’s arms.

“Yeah, you look super threatening,” she laughed. Killian was already shouting about _his head, Scarlet, jeez_ , but Matt seemed as entertained as he’d been all night and Will was never going to stop talking about the _locker room incident_.

“Well, I demand a seat at the table next season. We’ll be in the city anyway. I’m not doing that visiting the father thing again.”  
  
“A romantic,” Robin muttered, but he didn’t pull his eyes away from Mattie and, at some point, Matthew Jones had the Rangers most important fan. Will stuck his tongue out.

“You ok, love?” Killian asked, coming up behind Emma and resting his hand on the small of her back.

“Better,” Emma promised. She twisted around, dimly aware that he was still in skates, and pressed her hands flat against his chest. “You know the entire city of Columbus is probably going to outlaw you or something.”  
  
“Good, who wants to go to Columbus, anyway?”   
  
“I mean, if your facts are to be believed, most of the country could get to Columbus pretty easily.”   
  
Killian grinned at her and Will muttered something that sounded like _your parents are gross, Dr. J_ and Emma ignored him completely, eyes catching on a piece of vaguely familiar paper taped on the back of the locker behind them. Her heart sputtered or maybe grew and she could hear Roland yelling around the corner, screaming about points and standings and Henry was only a few steps behind, telling him to _slow down_ and, maybe, they were the story now.

She was still too tired to come up with better metaphors.

“You ready to go home, love?” Killian asked and Emma didn’t hesitate before she nodded.

“Yeah, let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I make absolutely no excuses for how absolutely, absurdly long this is. I don't know, internet, I've got Christmas feelings and Vankald feelings and, just, like, feelings. Full stop. There are two more Blue Line Christmas stories - from Killian's POV and then one from Matt's POV with lots of next-gen feelings. Because, as advertised, the feelings. I've got them. 
> 
> There's no updating schedule because there's also another Christmas story coming on Friday. Can't stop, won't stop. Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down.


	17. An Unexpected Opponent

“Ok, so, according to your list, we’ve only got the jerseys and the sticks left. Are they all game-worn though? That’s not...that’s not on the list.”  
  
Emma made a noise, not sure if it was an agreement or a disagreement or just the general sound of complete and utter exhaustion. She was having a difficult time keeping her head up. And her eyes open. Her eyes actually felt like they were falling down her face.

She was, at least, seventy-seven percent positive that wasn’t supposed to happen.

And, really, in the grand scheme of parenthood and the actual action of parenting in the middle of a season and a second-straight Cup defense, Emma knew a distinct lack of sleep was, more or less, part of the deal.

She also didn’t care.

Because her eyes seemed to have a distinct weight to them and Matt kept crying at regular twenty-minute intervals that appeared to be getting worse the longer they were stuck in Emma’s office. They were still stuck in Emma’s office.

“Em,” Mary Margaret muttered, voice quiet and cautious and that was probably because Emma hadn’t ever stopped making that noise.

She was just kind of grunting at this point.

She had no idea what to do to get her kid to stop crying. It had gotten worse since the game started.

“Are we losing?” Emma asked suddenly, and Mary Margaret’s eyes widened slightly. That was probably because they weren’t weighed down. Metaphorically, or whatever. Emma was far too tired to worry about the metaphors of it.

“No, no, I mean...not winning either, but I don’t think Arthur’s broken that many white boards. So, you know, grand scheme.”  
  
Emma made a different noise. She hoped it sounded more like a laugh than it felt. It kind of hurt, like it was lingering in the back of her throat or trying to scratch its way out and none of these things seemed particularly healthy.

“Grand scheme,” she echoed, eyes flitting towards the TV screen in the corner of her office.

They’d done road trips throughout the season – and none of them were particularly easy, but Emma was fairly certain she was still holding on to the majority of her sanity. She was at least confident her eyes weren’t actively trying to fall out of her face.

And she had help, a small army of people and in-laws who were more than happy to pick Matt up or bring Matt somewhere and Emma was fairly sure Merida was still reporting on her eating habits to Killian. It wasn’t easy, but it was ok, and Matt’s eyes seemed to actually light up every single time Killian came home which, in turn, did something incredibly specific to Emma’s entire soul.

This road trip, however, seemed intent on slowly, but surely killing her.

There were teething issues and sleeping issues and the kid seemed determined to to pull himself everywhere – knocking over everything in sight like some kind of six-month-old masquerading as Godzilla. He was still working on sitting up, but Emma had to admit even the attempt was impressive and Killian was convinced their son’s diction meant he was some kind of inevitable genius.

That genius kept him up and babbling for hours at a time.

Emma had no idea if the pile of jerseys behind her was game worn.

“If I fall asleep right here, right now, in front of you, is that going to super weird you out?” Emma asked, gaze flashing towards Mary Margaret. She shook her head.

“I’ve definitely seen you sleep in weirder places.”  
  
“Ah, yeah, that’s probably true.”

“That one time, senior year, when David had four finals in one day and you had that ridiculous...what was it...French?”  
  
Emma nodded. “French II. Because I needed a language requirement and they wouldn’t take my sports management electives instead.”   
  
“God, your dean was the worst.”   
  
“That’s an incredibly scathing insult, Reese’s.”   
  
“There are children present.”   
  
Emma’s laugh was weak at best and drifting dangerously close to depressing, eyelashes fluttering despite the sounds coming from her kid and the hockey game. “I think we’re starting to deal with some object permanence actually. He’s like...aware that I’m not going to disappear if I move away.”   
  
“He’s a genius, obviously.”   
  
“You and Killian should start some kind of campaign.”   
  
“Don’t actually suggest that around him,” Mary Margaret grinned, and she was already starting a new list. “He’d go on the record or shout it from center ice or something.”   
  
Emma hummed, not quite able to make any other noise when her heart was so busy doing _whatever_ in her chest, but Mary Margaret was absolutely right and Killian would probably call Dorothy and get some kind of special edition of _Sports Illustrated_ printed. And, honestly, she didn’t mean for the sigh to just fall out of her the way it did, but she’d apparently lost complete control of everything and she needed to find Kristoff.

He had to know about the jerseys.

“Hey, hey,” Mary Margaret said quickly, reaching out and tugging the pen Emma forgot she was holding out of her hand. “What’s going on with you? You know you look kind of pale.”  
  
“That’s not really the best way to start this.”   
  
“How much sleep would you say you’ve gotten on average in the last week?”   
  
“I don’t want to tell you that.”   
  
“Why?”   
  
Emma lifted her head, slowly and a little repentantly, which didn’t really make any sense because Mary Margaret was not her mother. She was the mother and she was, approximately, eighty-two percent positive she was messing it up.

Matt wouldn’t stop babbling and crying and Emma’s arms felt like they were going to fall off. It was because she kept having to pick him up. So he didn’t knock over merch for whatever Garden of Dreams event they were planning for.

She genuinely could not remember the name of the event.

“You could come back home with us,” Mary Margaret suggested. She’d never let go of Emma’s hand. “We’ve got that pop-up thing and--”  
  
“--David’s got to work tomorrow, Reese’s. You’ve got to work tomorrow. The kid wakes up, like, several times a night to scream at the moon or something.”   
  
“Did you just suggest your own kid was a werewolf?”   
  
“At this point I really don’t know.”

Mary Margaret scoffed and her smile felt a little placating, but Emma was so tired and so sure she was _ruining everything_ that she almost didn’t care. She wanted to be placated. She wanted this road trip to be over.

She desperately wanted to find a children’s medicine that made sure her kid didn’t suffer in agony so he could, eventually, eat solid foods.

“You also have to work tomorrow,” Mary Margaret pointed out. “Just, you know...if we’re covering all our bases.”  
  
“You’re mixing up sports references.”   
  
“Playing a good shift? Does that even make sense?”   
  
Emma shrugged. “That question is way too in-depth for the amount of consistent sleep I’ve been getting. How important do you think it is to get to REM?”

“Incredibly.”  
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“Yeah,” Mary Margaret nodded. “So, uh, I’m going to say something, ok? And I want you to bite your actual tongue if you have to so you don’t interrupt me because I know you’re going to try and interrupt me.”   
  
“That’s actually kind of scathing, Reese’s.”   
  
“That’s an interruption.”

Emma mimed zipping her mouth shut, staring at Mary Margaret with something she hoped was as much sarcasm as one expression could contain, but she figured she kind of missed her mark when she had to lean back and move Matt in the swing they’d put him in once the game started.

He would have tried to walk into the TV otherwise, Emma was certain. Object permanence or something. And possibly how much he wanted to see his dad.

She absolutely hated road trips now.

“Alright,” Mary Margaret starts, nodding again like she’s psyching herself up for this particular brand of hope speech. “I know you were off after Matt was born and that was good and, you know, medically necessary, but have you considered...maybe using some of your personal days for stuff like this?”  
  
The silence in the room wasn’t really silent – Matt was still babbling and Emma could make out the dim sounds of the puck hitting the boards in Philadelphia and the commentary in the background. She blinked, licking her lips and she wasn’t exactly comfortable, one of her hands still twisted with Mary Margaret’s, while the other tried to move Matt in some kind of consistent rhythm. The babbling was quickly turning to something that sounded like the tell-tale sounds of a complete and utter meltdown.

Emma briefly considered joining him.

“Thoughts?” Mary Margaret asked.

Emma tilted her head. “That doesn’t count as an interruption?”  
  
“I actually expected the sarcasm completely, so I’m not even turned off by that at all.”   
  
“What are you then?”   
  
“Worried about you and your distinct lack of REM sleep. And whatever horrible, no good, very bad things your mind is making you think because of that lack of REM.”   
  
Eventually, Emma was sure, Mary Margaret would stop being so impossibly good at reading her or knowing her or, possibly, just sharing a few of the same brain wavelengths. She hoped not.

Because those wavelengths made sure Mary Margaret stayed in the office that night – not bothering to ask, just sitting on the ground and tugging Emma’s list out of her hand with a practiced familiarity that defied decades.

“You should take this show on the road,” Emma muttered, working a quiet laugh and knowing smile out of Mary Margaret. “I bet you could make millions.”  
  
“Who would you get to babysit all the time, then?”   
  
“You don’t have to do that.”   
  
Mary Margaret squeezed her hand. “I want to. A whole line of people want to. Several professional hockey players are beating down metaphorical doors to want to.”   
  
“I’m not sure that last sentence made much sense,” Emma laughed, and it was still a little shaky and questionably watery, vision swimming a bit in front of her, but she took a deep breath and that felt like a step in the right direction.

“And I’m not sure you’re qualified to discuss sentence structure.” Emma rolled her eyes. “Honestly though,” Mary Margaret continued. “You don’t have to be some kind of superhero. I know you could be and usually are because, well--”  
  
“--You going to get sappy on me, Reese’s?”   
  
“Yes, don’t interrupt. I know you were worried about all of this and it happened suddenly and without much planning, and that’s not really your game, but…” She took a deep breath, shoulders heaving with the force of it and Emma didn’t think she imagined the slightly glossy look to her eyes. “You are doing an incredible job, Emma,” Mary Margaret said, no hint of anything except absolute and complete honesty in her voice. “I don’t know how you’re doing it.”   
  
“Was that last part a compliment?”   
  
“Of the highest order. Because you’re doing it all. That’s kind of where I'm going with this. I know you’re worried. But the crying is normal and the lack of sleep is normal and you could probably call the pediatrician about the teething thing if it’s freaking you out.”   
  
Emma let out a breath she didn’t realize she was hoarding, only slightly stunned by the mind reading going on in her office. Matt threw something. The game on TV got louder.

“I just…” Emma muttered, twisting her lips when the words got caught in the back of her throat. With the emotion. There was too much emotion. She was a mess.

“I know you do,” Mary Margaret promised. At some point she’d laced her fingers through Emma’s, thumb tapping just above the relatively-new laces sitting on her left wrist again. “Everyone does. And you are. The crying jags aside, that is the happiest and most loved kid in the entire National Hockey League.”  
  
“That’s definitely the marker we were going for.”   
  
Mary Margaret scoffed, shifting closer to Emma so she could wipe away a tear she hadn’t noticed either. “Don’t lie to my face like that, it’s not cool.”

Emma nodded, tugging her lips behind her teeth and trying to remember what any semblance of confidence looked like. Matt quieted for a moment, the sounds turning a bit closer to whimpers and that was, somehow, even worse. It made Emma’s body tense and her spine seemed to audibly snap back into place when she jerked around, eyebrows pulled low as her lungs desperately tried to get oxygen back to her brain.

“I know we’re not really doing that whole pronunciation thing yet, kid,” Emma said, pulling out of Mary Margaret’s and tugging Matt against her chest before she could remember all the reasons the websites told her she shouldn't. “But it’d be really great if we could fine tune what, exactly, has got you freaking out so much. Dad’s going to be home tonight.”

It didn’t work.

The sounds were still there – sinking into Emma’s skin and that same soul that never quite knew what to do with the idea that this was her life. She bobbed on her feet, rocking back and forth and trying to find a comfortable way to hold Matt and work her phone out of her back pocket at the same time.

That didn’t work either.

She was going to scream.

Or cry.

Or fall on the floor and sleep for several days.

Matt squirmed against her, tiny hands gripping her shirt and for a kid who seemed particularly interested with the National Hockey League he had a pretty good right kick, a move he appeared intent on perfecting by landing it in Emma’s liver.

“What if we just walked to Philadelphia?” she asked, directing the question more to Mary Margaret than Matt.

Mary Margaret smiled. “I don’t know if that entirely efficient. They’re already at the second intermission anyway and--”  
  
She didn’t finish the sentence, footsteps coming down the hall and a noise that might have been genuine laughter and not just exhaustion-induced insanity and Matt nearly flew out of Emma’s arms as soon as Ruby rounded the corner of the open doorway.

She was holding takeout bags. So was Henry. She’d brought Henry with her.

“Hey mini-Jones,” Ruby said, hardly breaking stride as she walked towards him. “You causing problems up here? We could hear you as soon as we got off the elevator.”  
  
“Not as soon as we got off the elevator,” Henry objected. “It took us at least a few steps before we heard him. Impressive lungs though.”   
  
Emma groaned. “You guys are all throwing out really horrible compliments.”   
  
“Aw, c’mon,” Mary Margaret sighed. She hadn’t gotten off the ground. “My compliment was good! And genuine!”

“Also,” Ruby added, moving some of the bags so she had a free hand to tug on the back of Matt’s onesie. “She managed to surreptitiously text me when it was becoming more and more obvious you guys were never getting out of here, so not only do I come with a plethora of promises that you’re the best mom this side of the Mississippi, but I’ve also got just a questionable amount of fried food to back up those claims.”  
  
“Do those go hand in hand?” Henry asked. He had to move a few piles of paper on Emma’s desk to find any open space, but there really was a ton of food and he kept smiling and maybe the Rangers would score in the third period.

That was almost optimistic.

Ruby shrugged. “I don’t know and I don't care. Emma’s too tired to be worried about my sentence structure anyway.”

“These are not the compliments I was promised,” Emma said, but she was tired and practically overflowing with sentimental thoughts and deep-rooted parental desires and maybe she’d take tomorrow off.

Merida probably knew what the event was called anyway.

“The compliment is that you’re some kind of super mom who’s really worried about totally normal teething schedules. Also you and Cap need to coordinate your worry a little better because Scarlet said--”  
  
“I’m sorry, are you gossiping about mine and Killian’s parenting with Scarlet?”   
  
Ruby didn’t quite glare, but it was almost like a scowl and Henry did try to turn his laugh into some other kind of noise. Mary Margaret was never going to get off the floor. “Give me a little credit, Em,” Ruby sighed. “Did you see the way Cap skated in Carolina?”   
  
“I watch the games, Ruby.”   
  
“Exactly. So we all know that no one in the Jones household is sleeping and you’re both absurd parents--”

“--In a way that is actually a compliment,” Henry added, flashing a smile when Emma’s eyes darted his direction.

“Again, exactly,” Ruby muttered. “But Cap could barely stay on the ice for more than thirty seconds and then they had the off day and now Arthur's breaking whiteboards in Philly and you have no idea what your event is called.”  
  
Emma blinked. “How do you know that?”   
  
“About the shifts or...because that’s kind of just basic math.”   
  
“That’s not really Emma’s strong suit either,” Mary Margaret muttered, shrugging when Emma gaped at her. “French II and that intro to stats we took sophomore year. Your academic downfall.”

“I passed both of those classes,” Emma said, and Henry wasn’t even trying to mask his laugh anymore.

“Ehh…”  
  
Emma rolled her eyes, but she didn’t really have a leg to stand on and she needed both of them if she was going to make sure the kid her in arms stayed there. “Is Scarlet worried about Killian’s sleeping habits? Is that what’s happening?”   
  
“Robin too,” Henry said, answering a question that wasn’t entirely directed at him. “He said Killian’s trying to murder mattresses.”   
  
“That’s impressive,” Ruby muttered. Emma didn’t object when she pulled Matt out of her hands, thankful for the lack of weight on her forearms and the no-longer present threat to a variety of internal organs. “The road trips are going to be garbage from here on out, Em,” she continued. “But we’re all still here and Cap’s destroying hotel furniture because he wants to be home that much and you’re way more organized than you honestly have any right to be and Mer said the jerseys were game-worn. Obviously.”   
  
“She didn’t say that second part,” Henry added.

Ruby waved a dismissive hand through the air. “That’s neither here nor there. So, we’ve brought the food, the third period’s about to start. Direct us, o fearless community relations leader. What has to be organized?”  
  
They weren’t quite a well-oiled machine – Matt was far too loud and squirmy for that and Emma’s legs didn’t entirely appreciate when she leapt up with five minutes left in the game, but she had some kind of sixth sense, or so Ruby proclaimed, and she might have actually fist pumped when Killian pulled his stick back.

It wasn’t the best shot in the world. It wasn’t even the best shot he’d taken all season. But it was a _shot_ and there was a bit of power on it and her soul did something absurd again.

Mary Margaret’s breath caught. Loudly.

The Philadelphia defense hadn’t stood a chance, not really, and Killian hadn’t been sleeping much either, even when he was home, not really, but he still moved up the ice with a speed that was as ridiculous as attractive and Emma had clearly lost her mind. She wasn’t supposed to be attracted to an attribute of her husband’s game.

Her mind, however, did not care.

Her mind was moving as quickly as he was, a streak of blue up the ice and it was actually some kind of miracle the Philadelphia defender didn’t trip over his own skates. Robin’s pass slide between a pair of orange jerseys and around a stick that wasn’t entirely on the ice, the puck landing in front of Killian and he didn’t slow down when he pulled back. His hips barely moved, like he wasn’t even trying, and Henry mumbled something that sounded a hell of a lot like _did that even go in_ behind Emma.

She nodded.

And the light went off.

She wasn’t sure what noise she made, but Killian spun around, back colliding with the nearest board in the Wells Fargo Center as his arm wrapped around Robin’s shoulders. They did something stupid, a shake of their heads and smiles obvious as the camera zoomed in and--

“Oh, they planned that,” Emma muttered, Ruby’s quiet hum of confusion barely audible when Matt started to make noise again. “They planned that,” she repeated. “The whole play. Did you see that? Robin didn’t even look up. He knew Killian was going to be there.”  
  
Emma turned back towards Henry, the smile on his face turning a little smug and a little knowing. “What do you know?”   
  
“That Robin was annoyed Killian was trying to pummel hotel mattresses into submission and demanded they discuss some kind of breakout on the power play if they were both going to get negative amounts of sleep.”   
  
“That last one verbatim?” He nodded. “It wasn’t a power play though.”   
  
“Guess Killian’s just that fast.”   
  
“Maybe he could walk back here,” Mary Margaret mumbled, and Matt was logging some pretty good mileage as he moved from person to person in an office filled with now-organized merch.

“I wouldn’t put it past him, actually.”  
  
Emma hummed or laughed or dissolved into those emotions that had been tugging at the back of her mind for the majority of the night, and she was almost confident they’d be able to get out of the Garden without anymore issues or concerns regarding her ability to parent, but that lasted less than a full second and the scream that came a few feet away echoed in between her ears.

That wasn’t biologically possible either.

“Oh my God,” she sighed, visibly deflating at Mary Margaret’s wide eyes and Ruby’s not-so-quiet gasp. Emma was going to comp the car she called. She was going to call out the next day. “What is happening here?”

She reached forward, pulling Matt back and wincing at several well-placed kicks. “What are we doing, kid? Did you not just see Dad score? That was a good goal! We’re probably going to win now. Aren’t we cool with winning?”  
  
“Ma ma ma ma ma maaaaaaaaa.”

The word got less and less pronounced the more Matt kept repeating it, twisting and turning and yanking on the ends of Emma’s hair and the front of her shirt. His legs flailed and his head dropped back and she was absolutely going to have the most impressive forearm muscles of anyone on the entire island of Manhattan.

“You know, I thought we were almost drifting close to actually falling asleep,” Ruby mused, trying without much success to rest her hand on Matt’s back. “Wishful thinking, I guess.”  
  
“Welcome to my world,” Emma mumbled. She shifted her weight between her feet, trying to work back towards the swing and the teething ring that was probably just lukewarm plastic at this point and they’d been doing so well. The road trip was going to end on a high note and she was going to be some kind of mother of the year with a husband whose speed on ice should probably get studied at some point.

That was such a weird sentence.

She was so goddamn tired.

And she didn’t know what to do next.

Emma muttered a string of increasingly absurd nonsense, trying to smile and not burst into tears, but that was proving more and more difficult and she was dimly aware of laughter coming from the TV.

“Oh shit,” Henry whispered, clicking his teeth when Mary Margaret made some kind of reproachful noise. “No, no, no, just...ok, don’t tell Gina I said that, but, listen, Emma, turn around. Don’t let Mattie look at the TV.”  
  
That was not the string of words she expected. At all.

“What?”  
  
“Where’s your remote?”   
  
“What?”   
  
Henry growled, his whole head rolling in frustration, and that wasn’t right either. There were takeout containers everywhere. One of them crunched under his feet when he moved, darting towards the TV with his hand already out and Emma was worried he was going to punch through the actual screen.

And that was when she saw it.

“What the hell is that thing?” Emma demanded, gesturing wildly towards the ice in Philadelphia and the furry, orange monstrosity shooting t-shirts out of an air-powered gun. “Oh my God, why are his eyes moving like that?”  
  
She expected Ruby to laugh even less than she expected Henry to swear. Maybe she’d just walk home. Screw the car. “Gritty?” Ruby asked, and Emma could not come up with a single word to respond to that.

The stupid thing was trying to dance on the ice. Matt cried louder.

“What is a Gritty?” Emma shouted, Henry still making ridiculous noises because her TV was _state of the art_ or something and there were no buttons on the actual thing. “Ok, ok, Mattie, Mattie, we’ve got to breathe kid, the absolutely terrifying monster is not going to come out of the TV and attack us.”

“Should we be referring to him as a monster?” Mary Margaret asked. She grabbed the jersey on top of the closest pile, throwing it over the TV screen and it didn’t really cover everything, but it was at least a start and Emma was kind of terrified of Gritty.

Whatever that actually was.

“He’s a mascot,” Ruby reasoned. “I mean...we’ve all seen mascots before, right?”  
  
Emma shook her head, disbelief in her gaze. “We don’t have a mascot. Oh my God, Reese’s, do you think he was crying about this asshole the whole game?”

“I think that seems entirely possible,” Mary Margaret said, a hint of a smile tugging at her mouth.

“This is not funny!”

“I mean…”  
  
“It’s not!”

“It’s a little funny,” Henry admitted. He was still trying to find the remote, but the game was almost over and Emma figured even terrifying, demon mascots had to get off the ice when there was a faceoff to take. “How have you never seen Gritty before, he was like...a cultural phenomenon.”  
  
“Can we please stop referring to him by his name? That is a man in a suit. An absolutely terrifying, shouldn’t exist suit.”   
  
“He’s been around for months, Em,” Ruby said. “All season. Oh.”   
  
“Oh. Oh, what?”   
  
“And you were worried you weren’t super Mom.”   
  
Emma didn’t respond immediately, but she tilted her head and tried not to covet that title too much. She wondered how quickly the entire New York Rangers could get out of Philadelphia. “Where are you going with this?”   
  
“They announced the mascot right before the start of the regular season,” Ruby grinned. “Henry’s right. He was all over the news and late night and social media because, you know--”   
  
“--He’s terrifying?”

“It’s the eyes, I think. If he didn’t have googly eyes, it wouldn’t be an issue.”  
  
“What does this have to do with my parenting skills?”   
  
“More like you becoming a parent,” Mary Margaret corrected. “I think you were a little preoccupied with, you know, giving birth to be worried about Philadelphia mascots that never should have existed.”   
  
“Wow, that’s harsh, M’s,” Henry muttered, still kind of laughing and he grinned when Emma’s head snapped his direction. “But also true.”   
  
“See,” Ruby crowed. “You haven’t done anything wrong, Em. If anything, you’re saving mini-Jones’ mental stability from the get because you made sure he wasn’t aware of a world where Gritty existed. And you totally went into complete Mom mode as soon as Henry said.”   
  
Emma wasn’t sure she was actually capable of blushing at this point – her capillaries or _whatever_ were probably too exhausted, but she had never been very good at science either and Matt had finally stopped crying.

Mary Margaret’s eyes were distinctly glossy again.

“It’s ok,” Emma whispered, tightening her hold on Matt slightly and he didn’t squirm at all. He might have burrowed further into her chest. “You’re ok, I promise.”

And she didn’t walk back uptown, both Mary Margaret and Ruby scandalized at even the notion. She sat in the back of a town car instead, a sleeping baby next to her, a quiet that, somehow, made it easier to breathe. Mary Margaret helped her carry everything upstairs.

Emma didn’t plan on falling asleep, but her eyes had other ideas and she didn’t hear the lock click back in place, startling on the couch when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

He grinned at her.

“Hey,” Killian muttered, crouching in front of her and brushing the hair away from her eyes. “You can’t possibly be comfortable.”  
  
“I don’t know that I could actually move, honestly.”   
  
“I’m not sure that’s much better.”   
  
“Nice shot.”   
  
“It was an experiment.”   
  
“Yeah, I figured,” Emma said, and she appreciated whatever his eyebrows did at that. “Please, Locksley didn’t even lift his head up. Did you have to come up with some kind of signal, or how did it work, exactly?”   
  
“Do the years of experience not count?” Emma made a contrary noise, twisting despite the protests from several dozen muscles and Killian, tugging lightly on the loose tie still around his neck. His grin got bigger. “We counted. Scarlet was supposed to pass out of the zone and I had six seconds to get up the ice. Locksley had four to get to the other faceoff circle.”   
  
“I wasn’t aware Scarlet was part of the plan.”

Killian hummed, a quick brush of lips over her forehead and it was an impressive exercise in balance. “We had some time to kill.”  
  
“So I heard.”   
  
“Henry?”   
  
“Maybe you’re the genius.”   
  
“Ah, that just means it’s genetic,” Killian said. His fingers clearly had minds of their own, drifting over Emma’s neck and her shoulder and the bit of skin where her shirt had twisted underneath her. “You didn’t have to try and wait up for me, love.”   
  
“Try being the operative word.”   
  
“I appreciate the effort.”   
  
“You’ve got to sleep more on the road.”

“You’ve got to sleep more all the time.”  
  
She clicked her tongue, scrunching her nose and Killian’s capillaries clearly weren’t too exhausted to blush – particularly on the tips of his ears. “Ruby or Reese’s?”   
  
“Both. And David. They’re worried about you.”

“It was just a shitty road trip,” Emma whispered, not trusting herself to do anymore. Plus the sleeping kid a few feet away. Especially the sleeping kid a few feet away. “Did you hear about the mascot incident?”  
  
Killian blinked. And blinked again. “What?”   
  
“There is apparently some kind of actual monster masquerading as a mascot in Philadelphia and our kid is fundamentally terrified. Screamed every single time they showed him on the broadcast. Apparently.”   
  
“Apparently?”   
  
“I didn’t realize until the third period.”   
  
Emma’s nose was going to get stuck that way. Her sigh sounded impossibly pathetic when it fell out of her, throat tightening against the wad of _everything_ stuck in the back of it and Killian really could not have been comfortable. He didn’t move. “We can’t fix everything, Swan,” he said softly, fingers still tracing absent minded patterns on any bit of skin he could find. “I don’t think there’s a clause for mascots anywhere.”   
  
“And you’ve read enough websites. You’d totally have found it.”   
  
“So would you, love.”   
  
“I’m so tired.”   
  
It wasn’t an admission, not really. Everyone knew. Strangers on the street knew. Gritty probably knew. God, she hoped Gritty didn’t know. But it kind of felt like one anyway, and she really could not cope with the realization that it only took Killian six seconds to get up an entire NHL-size hockey rink.

And she hadn’t really considered the fact that he hadn’t kissed her yet, but the move still caught Emma by surprise, quick and somewhere dangerously close to bruising and they were both slightly codependant disasters who just wanted to give their kid the world – particularly one without horrifying and badly named mascots.

“So we should probably get you off the couch,” Killian said, standing back up and Emma didn’t take his hand so much as she threw her palm against his. He laughed under his breath. “Move the kid? Don’t move the kid?”  
  
“Move the kid,” she groaned. “He’s bound to wake up soon anyway, I think he’s preprogrammed to know when you get home.”   
  
Killian’s ears got redder. And that was worse than recorded speed on the ice.

He brushed his lips over her cheek, moving across the living room and Matt didn’t wake up immediately, but he twisted and made a few pointed noises, Killian only wincing slightly when he bobbed on his feet to try and quiet him. “The workout after the workout,” Emma muttered, a hand on his shoulder and body against his back, and she swore she _heard_ him smile.

“Ah, this is better.”  
  
“A line.”   
  
“A first line, actually. That’s got a very impressive plus-minus rating in the last few games.”   
  
“Are we acknowledging that stat?”   
  
“When it benefits me.”   
  
Emma laughed, pressing her face into the fabric underneath her cheek and if she was going to keep making sweeping assumptions regarding Killian, then she was positive she felt some of his muscles loosen underneath her. “Parents of the year,” she mumbled.

“I bet we could organize some charity event to practice slapshots at Gritty’s face.”  
  
“That’s violent.”   
  
“In defense of a kid, Swan.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Emma agreed, and there were feeding schedules and equipment to move, but sleep was _almost_ there and it was always easier when she and Killian were in the same bed. “C’mon, if we don’t move, I’m going to fall on top of you.”   
  
“Not the worst thing in the world.”   
  
“That was another line.”   
  
“Yeah, it was,” Killian said, an easy nod and smile and they both slept through their alarms the next morning.

And Gritty never really went away, a lesson Emma wasn’t entirely sure she appreciated, but was sure the world thought was _important_ – something about confronting fears and our own childhood worries and the ability to overcome both. The mascot was still there, orange with far too much fur and those goddamn googly eyes, terrifying Matthew Jones for the majority of his childhood and road trips he and his, eventual, younger sister got to go on.

The mascot was still there, shooting t-shirts into a screaming crowd at Wells Fargo, nearly two decades later and Emma hadn’t considered the implications of that when she put on a different jersey with the same name and number as it always was. At least she hadn’t until Henry chuckled lightly next to her, elbowing something that might have been her spleen to get her attention.

“Did you tell Rol?” she asked, glancing towards the grown man with his own kids who was doing a pretty good job of being _super dad_ too. “Mattie’ll be mad if Rol’s got something else to trash talk tonight.”   
  
Henry shook his head. “Who do you think I am, Emma?”   
  
“Someone who knows about a professional hockey player’s deep-rooted mascot fears.”   
  
“You’re making assumptions. And, no, I never told Rol. It’s Matt’s first game in Philadelphia. I’m excited for him. I’m not a jerk.”   
  
“But?”   
  
“How do you know there was a but?”

Emma pulled her eyes away from the ice, nerves churning and pulse beating loudly in her veins and she’d been far too concerned about Matt playing in Philadelphia for the first time and playing against Roland, but Henry just smiled at her. The kid standing at his feet tugged on his jersey. A Locksley jersey. Always now.

“But,” Henry echoed. “We did discuss some quick exit options out of the arena if he’s suddenly attacked by Gritty.”

Her laugh jumped out of her, entirely impossible and far too loud to be acceptable and Emma didn’t think before flinging her arms around Henry and hugging him as tightly as she could. He hugged her back.

“I doubt the mascot will attack,” Henry muttered. “But now, at least, we’re prepared.”  
  
“Exactly.”   
  
The mascot didn’t come back onto the ice in the first period, but Matthew Jones, making his Philadelphia debut against the guy who helped him practice the wristshot he was quickly becoming known for, made it up the ice in seven seconds flat, the puck on his stick and the light going off almost as soon as he pulled back to shoot.

Emma jumped and Henry jumped and Killian might have hit the window of the suite, pride practically radiating off him. “We’ll get that time down, Swan,” he promised. “Five by the end of the regular season.”

“Parents of the year,” Mary Margaret said, a twenty painted on both of her cheeks that were quickly getting smuged by the tears in her eyes. “With some headlines to prove it.”

Emma didn’t answer – absolutely _could not_ answer while her kid was still celebrating – but she nodded and Killian tugged her against his side, a kiss to her temple and the belief that they’d done something good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. The Rangers haven't played a hockey game in nearly a week. I don't know what to do with myself. So when I got a prompt for "Blue Line dealing with Gritty" I was like...I wrote that already. I should put it on the internet. Here we are. 
> 
> I'm glad to live in a world where Gritty also exists. As always, thank you guys for still enjoying these ridiculous stories and this hockey family. It is very nice. Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down.


End file.
